


Be Careful of What You Pick Up

by Mad_Amethyst



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (Magic Coconuts), (way too seriously...), Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Between Episodes, Crack Treated Seriously, Drug-Induced Sex, Episode XXIV. (S03E06), Episode XXV. (S03E07), Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not a Love Story, POV John Silver, Painful Sex, Prompt Fic, Sex Pollen, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Amethyst/pseuds/Mad_Amethyst
Summary: Man Picks Up A Coconut And What Happens Next Is Going To Shock You.Or a more complete summary here:This curious event happened while John Silver was stuck on Maroon Island, waiting for Flint and the crew to come back with the fleet. Taking his own mission to heart, John went for a walk in the Maroon camp in order to discover more about those people. That was then that he met with the big, imposing coconut tree and made one of the worst decisions of his life...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samedifference61](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/gifts), [Sweety_Mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/gifts), [Dupond_et_Dupont](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dupond_et_Dupont/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [samedifference61](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> Fucking finally! Hell, this story has been a nightmare to write! I started it in early April, and I had planned then to write some funny stuff, around 5,000 words or so. Honestly, I don't know when and how things got so out of hand... :/ I thought for a while I couldn't finish it--especially because the smut scene was just sooo problematic to me--but by some miracle I could make it, and I think I'm happy with this ~30,000 words long piece of work now that it's done. I hope you'll like it, [samedifference61](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61)! I still have a bit of editing to do, so I'll post the next chapters progressively, okay? :)
> 
> I would like to thank my friends [Sweety_Mutant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant) and [Dupond_et_Dupont](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dupond_et_Dupont/pseuds/Dupond_et_Dupont), as well as my sweet boyfriend, for their big support and patience. I couldn't have done it without them, so this is also a gift for them! And thanks again, Sweety, for your awesome work as my beta-reader! *gives you a box of cookies*
> 
> /!\ Please check the tags and make sure that there is nothing making you uncomfortable in this fanfiction before choosing to read it.
> 
> /!\/!\ English is not my native language. I tried to write in British English, as I find it fits John and the era better, but I'm sure I've made many mistakes. Also, I tend not to use contractions outside of dialogue. ^^' I hope you will appreciate your reading anyway!

In the end, John must admit the Queen’s daughter—the strong-willed exotic woman whose name was Madi—had been right to force him to get treated. First of all, the wound was way less inflamed. He had seen how the swelling had considerably gone down this morning, when the healer had changed the dressing; it looked and felt better. The pain was still present, but softer, a simple ghost of what he had to endure lately. It was, in fact, the first time for weeks he could put a hand near his stump without clenching his teeth or holding his breath. As for the fever, it had dropped in no time. He had no longer the feeling of burning alive. His mind was clearer too.

He felt good. He felt strong again. All it had taken was about a few days of rest, far from the sea, far from the crew and far from judging eyes.

John sat on the edge of the bed. Carefully, then, he put on his peg leg, the bandages still covering the wound—they would make a good friction protection layer. He knew he should not push himself. The skin on his stump might get inflamed again, after all, and if so the fever might come back too. But now he was just too eager to get out of the comfort of the hut, walk among the Maroon people and get to learn more about them and their way of living. To be honest, he could not stand being inactive. While Flint’s mission was to find Vane and his fleet and convince them somehow to join the war for Nassau again, John’s was to understand their new allies and reinforce their bonds. Obviously, he could not do it by lying on a bed all day long. So, that was how he started his stroll through the camp, using each handrail on his way to lighten the weight on his bad leg.

The afternoon was coming to an end, but the camp was always so lively, people busy with their daily routine. Men, doing their watch from the bridges high up; walking in the dirt streets, spears or rifles in hand; carrying large pieces of wood for some construction in progress; or even simply feeding the dogs, chickens and pigs. Women, with pots of water on their head; returning from the river with large basins filled with freshly washed clothes; disciplining some turbulent kids; or else attending the workers by offering them damp cloths. Nice talks, smiles, courtesy. This view was one of peace and good feelings.

Yet, John noticed that some of the Maroons kept glancing anxiously at Mr Scott’s hut. It pushed him to look at it too. He was hesitant. Because of his poor condition, he had missed an important ceremony. He did not feel particularly guilty about it, but—as Madi had so well stated then—his absence could have not been taken well by her people. He probably should make up for this; now did not seem like a good time, though. Two men were guarding the king’s hut. John barely took a step towards them that they glared at him and tightened their hands on their rifles. The message was quite clear: no visitor.

Well, it was understandable. Mr Scott surely needed his rest for now. Given how bad he had looked when he had arrived on the island, it was likely that his wound had become infected during the trip. Death was getting closer to him day by day, with very little chance to stop her. At this point, only his family must be allowed at his side. So John did not insist; he changed direction to continue his quiet observation of the camp.

He had already noticed it when they had been brought as prisoners, but John was really impressed by how well the Maroons were organised. Their camp was hardly accessible thanks to the large body of water in front of it and the tick forest all around. The lake and its river were a good strategic point, being both a protection and a source of drinking water. This area happened also to form a sort of valley in the very heart of the forest. No one could assume the existence of their tribe from the sea, not even from the beach. They were perfectly hidden from the rest of the world. That meant this camp and its surrounding were the safer place for the crew right now. A great base for operations.

It was a shame it could not be more than that, though. John could see it, how it would be easy to trap their enemies on this island, as its inhabitants had an evident advantage on its ground. They had adapted to survive; they had learned to hide and get rid of intruders efficiently. The crew, Flint, himself, they all had seen what these people could do. If the war were to start somewhere, they would have many more chances of victory by making the very first fight happen right here. But sadly it was not an option. Their enemy had got what they wanted: take control of Nassau, make it civilised again. They had strictly no reason to come on this island at the moment, not without a bait of great value to them—and John doubted that even the prospect of capturing the most wanted pirate of the New World, after learning he was back from the dead, would be enough to push them in that direction.

So, yes, it seemed that their fate depended entirely on Flint and his plan. Of one thing, John was certain: If Flint failed to do his part, if he could not bring the fleet back, as he had promised, this war would be ended before it even started… Because the Maroons, they would not be enough to retake Nassau. They needed those ships, those men too, or they had just no chance to isolate Nassau, no chance to weaken the new governor and his army and strictly no chance of winning any fight.

Closing his eyes, feeling the sweet caress of the low sun on his face, John tried to get his worries out of his mind. He was not on the _Walrus_ right now. He had no power on this particular outcome. He had no choice but to wait and see what it would be. In the meantime, why not to simply enjoy his time ashore?

And thus he did. He continued his exploration, his steps taking him further away from the edge of the camp, making him discover parts he had not seen yet. At some point, the path before him became larger, forming a large and circular space. It was similar to the main place in front of the Queen’s hut, where night festivities were regularly held, except there was no cage around here. Nothing but huts and little trees and plants, as well as two wooden benches placed on opposite sides. It would be a nice playground for kids if it was not for this imposing palm tree just at the centre of the place, enclosed by a wooden barrier. Being naturally curious, John came nearer to it. He wondered if maybe this palm tree had an important significance to these people. Like, hmm, a sacred tree or something like that?

He leaned against the barrier and gazed at the palm tree for some time. It had a stout, slightly curved trunk, greyish brown, untouched by human hands. From where he was, John could distinguish growing coconuts at the top, half hidden by the numerous bright green fronds.

Well… it just looked like any other coconut tree to him. A bit bigger and stronger than the usual, maybe, but really it was not impressive at all.

John was going to leave when he heard the sound of something hitting the ground. He searched for the source of the sound, and then his eyes fell on a big coconut rolling slowly to him. Probably the victim of a clumsy capuchin monkey. He thought it was going to stop after a roll or two—it was the logical outcome. Yet, the fruit continued its course, roll after roll, even passing under the barrier, in the space between two wooden poles, until it was stopped by his iron foot.

“Weird,” John told aloud to himself, a bit surprised. Was it a slightly sloping area?

He bent down and picked up the coconut, anyway. As it happened, he was beginning to feel thirsty. He could just as well take the fruit to the hut that he was offered to stay in and drink all its juice. Coconut water was not his favourite, but at least it was refreshing, and he was not going to be finicky—not after what they had endured the past three weeks.

It was decided, then. It was time to turn back and get some rest.

* * *

It actually took John twice as long to make his way back to the hut. In his enthusiasm, it had not come to his mind that he would have to walk the same distance returning than going… As soon as he arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the bed, putting the coconut right beside him. The walk had lasted too long. Despite his best efforts and caution, it had been tiring for his bad leg. Now he needed to let it breathe and enjoy the cool night breeze.

He gently removed the leather bonds, not wanting to irritate his skin more with hasty gestures. His stump hurt a little when he took off the peg leg, but it seemed that the bandages had protected it well, at least. He put the peg leg on the ground, against the end of the bed, near the leather bag in which he kept a few things—including a knife. It was quickly followed by his right boot and his sock—both stinking terribly, he must admit. He then moved his toes, enjoying the sudden liberty of his remaining foot, but soon his left side started to complain even more, as if jealous.

John gave his stump a reproachful look, any feeling of relief gone in a split second. He offered it his attention, anyway. He removed the worn out bandages—they caused more wrong than good for the wound right now. Then he put a hand on his thigh, lightly, and caressed it to ease the pain in his nerves. In response, the pain only increased…

Damn… That was his life, always since he had lost his fucking leg… This dull pain, waiting for him at every corner, punishing the simple fact that he still existed… It seemed to be the revenge of his missing limb… a silent mockery to which he had no way to retort…

Searching for a distraction, John eyed the green coconut next to him. More he thought about it, more his thirst was growing. His mouth felt dry, and his throat was scratchy. It was beginning to become quite annoying…

He took the knife from his bag, put it on the bed, then grabbed the fruit in both hands and placed it between his thighs. Still holding it firmly with his left hand, he gripped the knife and started to carve the coconut, being careful not to cut himself in the process.

John put away his knife and removed the piece he had cut. Good. He had managed to reach the seed. Without waiting any longer, he took the coconut and brought it hastily to his dried lips, parting them, eager to access his prize. The juice started to flow in his mouth, and suddenly it was paradise. All right, he did not like coconut water that much, but it was honestly the best he had ever drunk. It was so sweet and light and fresh. From the first swallow, the scratch in his throat vanished as if it had never been there, and all tension seemed to flow from his body. Even the pain in his left side slowly began to calm down as he continued to drink. Frankly, John had not felt so relaxed for a very long time.

Sadly, he drained way too fast the coconut from its delicious juice. Only drops were falling from the hole by now, and he had to use his tongue to lick what was left. When he realised what he was doing, though, he stopped immediately and threw the fruit on the floor out of embarrassment. If he liked this particular coconut water so much, he could always go back to the coconut tree the next day. He should not behave as a greedy pig…

Well, at the very least, he was feeling refreshed. With a sigh of contentment, he lay down on his bed, putting his hands behind his head. It had been a good day, in the end—contrary to the past days, especially when he had been weak and in pain in front of the Queen’s daughter. Today, he had made use of his time. He had watched more closely their new allies and their environment. He had walked among them without being treated with suspicion. It seemed that the Maroons better accepted his presence here, now. That was progress.

He was lost in his thoughts when he heard someone enter into the hut. He turned his head to the right and saw Madi standing at the entrance.

“I brought you some food,” she said, showing him the bowl she was holding.

He sat up in bed and gave her his thanks. He still did not know how to behave in front of her. He did not want to be disrespectful in any way.

The young woman smiled slightly and sat down on the edge of the bed. John took the bowl, his fingers brushing against hers as he did so, their softness and warmth reminding him of her act of comfort when he had suffered at the hands of the healer. He cleared his throat, embarrassed by the memory, and looked instead at the unidentified slop in the bowl—more precisely the strange piece of meat.

“Iguana,” answered Madi to the question he was wondering.

He nodded, tried a piece of it. Strangely enough, it tasted like fish, and it was not as bad as he thought it would be. He took another bite, and continued his meal with an appreciative hum.

He could feel Madi’s eyes on him, and he suspected that she came for more than just bringing him food. He hesitated to meet her gaze and ask her what was on her mind, but she talked before he could make a decision.

“I heard you got out earlier.”

He stiffened. He should have known that it was why she was here… So what? Did she want him to stay in this hut from now on, as some sort of prisoner? Just because he had made the mistake of showing her his main weakness?

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she went on, and John understood then that she was not trying to reprimand him. He swallowed his anger back, ashamed of thinking so little of her.

“I have you to thank for that,” he admitted with a half-embarrassed smile.

He was well aware of the state in which he could be right now if she had not insisted to have him treated. He knew of his stubbornness about this particular matter, knew he could regret it someday… Dr Howell had annoyed him all too often about the risks if John did not take better care of his wound…

The young woman shook his head. “I pointed out what needed to be done, but ultimately the decision was yours. No one could have forced you, Mr Silver.”

John opened his mouth to say something, but truthfully he had no idea what to answer to that. In the end, Madi was right, even though it had not appeared so much as a choice to him then. It was a bit disconcerting for him, being at a loss for words, but it seemed that he should get used to it when speaking with the Queen’s daughter. She had such a strong spirit, just like her mother, and she always had a wise answer to offer.

He finished his meal, giving her back the bowl, thanking her once again. He thought she would get up and leave, but she did not move. Instead, Madi looked at him and said, “It was kind of you to try visiting my father.”

He blinked, surprised.

“A guard told me,” she explained. “I’m sorry you were refused the right to see him.”

“Oh no, I certainly understand.”

There was a short silence during which Madi seemed to struggle with her thoughts.

“Would you talk to me about him?” she finally asked. “My father. I know so little of his life.”

Her eyes communicated a vulnerability that John had not seen before. He felt strangely touched by it, his heart constricting at the view.

“I’m afraid I’m not best placed to tell you about him. I barely spoke with him since we first met.”

“It is more than I was able to do in years,” she answered.

He snorted at it. “All right, I suppose I could tell you the little I know.”

He talked about their encounter then, when Mr Scott was still in the service of Ms Guthrie, talked about their trip to Charles Town too, when her father took temporarily the role of Quartermaster on the _Walrus_. He tried not to enhance his story for once, wanting to give authenticity to Madi—she deserved that much.

To be honest, John could not understand how she felt. He did not remember his parents and had never missed them. His most important loss was surely his leg, if he was asked. It said a lot about his character, right?

When he had nothing to relate anymore, the young woman thanked him with a smile, but he could see the little bit of sadness hidden into it. He said nothing about it, though, and watched her walk away with a heavy heart, asking himself why he felt so concerned about her.

He let out a sigh as he lay down again, determined to think of something else. He looked at his left, up at the night sky. The same sky Flint and the crew were sailing beneath. If the winds had been favourable, they had probably met with the fleet by now—six, seven ships sailing away from Nassau should not be too hard to spot. He wondered if they might be on their way back, if they had succeeded to retrieve Vane and the fleet from Teach’s hands. He hoped they had.

And here he was, still worrying about that… Why was he doing this? He had seen Flint’s power; he had seen him survive so many things, even when the odds were against him. Flint might have been lost some time ago in that cage, but not anymore. He had an objective again. A reason to fight. So, really, John should not worry about him. Flint would be fine; he would get through whatever obstacle he would face, as he always had.

On this thought, John closed his eyes and let his consciousness slowly fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this chapter, you can let me know with a kudo and/or even--let's be crazy--a comment! See you soon for the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

_The whole word was burning. Standing in the middle, he watched silently as everything fell apart. Around him, only chaos and devastation. The sound of guns firing relentlessly. Bodies flying and crashing. The clash of swords, the shooting of rifles. Blood, flames, bits and pieces, everywhere. Ashes carried over by the wind. He tasted it as it got into his mouth, and he swallowed it all. A fire started inside him. He brought his hands before him, looked at his palms. Cracks. Red consuming flames coming out. Pain. Then nothing but ashes, flying to a new body to burn._

John woke up confused and feeling as if he was once again burning alive. His tunic was drenched with sweat, just like the thin blanket on which he was lying as well as the thick folded one positioned under his head. His first reaction was to try removing his tunic; it was too hot and fucking uncomfortable. But his limbs were like jelly right now, and he could not gather enough strength in his hands to pull the cloth out of his trousers, let alone prop himself up.

Quickly, desperate to find some retrieve from this hellish fire, he turned around in bed and pressed himself against the wooden barrier at his left—still careful not to crush his bad leg in the process. He sighed in contentment then. The wood was hard, but cold. He pushed his forehead against it and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the cool sensation. He could barely think. Did the fever come back? Fuck… it must be it…

His breath was erratic, hot. The itch in his throat was back, stronger, reminding him of the past weeks of rationing aboard the _Walrus_ , of the thirst impossible to quench, the bottom of a mug once every two days being barely enough to survive… He instinctively licked his lips, but it did not make his thirst disappear in any way. _Stop! If you focus on this, it will only be worse!_

Soon, the wood started to lose his coolness where John was touching it, so he shifted against the barrier, searching for parts that would still be cold. It worked; for a few moments, at least. His strategy became fast inefficient, as the hot fire consuming his body from inside was not calming down at all. If something, it was only intensifying.

John started to panic then. His mind was assailed by an intense feeling of want and need. He did not understand. What the fuck was happening to him? Was the fever driving him mad? He wanted—What did he want exactly? Fuck! Fuck!

He turned around again, looking frantically for any other source of freshness. But as he did so, he could not hold back a moan. The friction of his skin against any kind of surface, whether it be the hard wood, the wet blanket or even just the fabric of his own clothes, was now pure torture. It made his whole body burn even more, both inside and outside. This growing fire seemed unstoppable.

That was it. That was how he was going to die. Alone, at night, on a rustic bed in an unfamiliar place. And because of what? His stubbornness? Had he been too reckless? He should have stayed in bed… Damn it! It was only a walk! A damn fucking little walk!

He moaned again. The need. Stronger and stronger. Such a hot feeling, going down, from his guts to his—What? Oh, God! No no no… He was not… He slid a tentative hand to his crotch. He barely touched it through his trousers that it sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. Fuck, all right, he could feel it. It was not just an impression: he was fully erected. Great… Probably a side effect of the fever. Nothing bad, really.

…

Oh come on! Who was he kidding? Of course it was bad! He could not be found like this, like some beast on heat on its deathbed! What kind of stories would people tell about him then?! As if being a crippled man were not bad enough!

Thus, in spite of his lack of strength, he started to fight with the buttons of his trousers. The fight was long, loud with growls of frustration and incontrollable moans, but at last he succeeded to open his trousers and pull them a bit down.

As his aching cock was released from the painful pressure, John sighed in satisfaction and, without further delay, put his hand flat on the length. He could feel it, the heat, the angry veins filled with blood, throbbing against his sweaty palm. Fuck, he was so hard it was a wonder to him how he had not come yet… Beads of liquid were leaking from the tip of his cock, soiling the end of his tunic in their fall.

He glanced around him, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. It was night. Surely no one would catch him in the act, right? But what if he ended waking someone up with shameful noises as those that he could not hold back earlier? What if, in fact, he had already woken them up? Were they listening to him, hidden in the dark, waiting for his coming end? Fuck… Honestly, at this point he was not sure anything could change his mind anymore. The feeling of need was too strong; it was clouding his thoughts, sweeping away his fears.

_Come on, let’s do this quick!_

He slid his palm over the head of his prick, collected some moisture to make his hand slicker. Sadly, from there, things did not go the way he wanted… As a result of his little struggle with his trousers a moment ago, his muscles and articulations seemed to be even weaker, and so John barely managed to circle his fingers around his shaft. How was he supposed to move back and forth now, let alone move fast?

He gave out a cry of frustration. He was trying hard, the hardest he could in his condition, but the slow and sloppy moves of his hand were not nearly enough to satisfy his current need. He tried to push with his hips then, to make it faster. He was not more successful, though, as he found it too tiring to keep up the rhythm after three well-placed pushes…

 Fine… If he could not be quick in any way, he would take his time then, bringing pleasure from little attentions.

He moved his other hand between his thighs, caressed his balls with his fingertips. He cupped them, fondled them just the way he liked it—more or less, since he was still limited by his serious lack of energy.

He quivered at the touch, having to bite his lip to muffle the moan that arose. _It’s working!_

He continued moving back and forth with his main hand, imagining behind closed eyelids that it was someone else’s hand teasing him, trying to make him lose his mind. He also used his thumb, pausing at the top to collect and spread the fluid coming out of the slip, then slowly tracing the underside of his shaft all the way to the base. He could picture it as the soft and wet caress of an experienced tongue instead, the light touch of his bitten nail on the sensitive skin being similar to that of teeth.

His cock was nicely responsive to his ministrations; it was throbbing in his hand, dripping more and more precome each second. John felt so close. So. Fucking. Close. His whole body was tense, from his head to his toes, his only foot pushing—weakly, but determinately—into the bed, the thin blanket under him now displaying new creases.

Yet, he did not come. His mind—or rather the burning feeling that had taken over his mind—was screaming to him that it was not enough. It would never be enough, not like that. There was something missing…

_Fuck… I just want to come… Let me come, damn it!_

At this point, he hid his face in the thick cover—the one serving as his pillow with a bunch of other covers neatly folded beneath—so he could muffle the sound of his moans and whimpers. He was on the verge of crying by now, because of how frustrated he was by the entire situation. None of his tricks could make him come. It only brought him to the edge, to this moment when you would do anything, just anything, to achieve release. But he had no one to beg at, no one to help him with his problem… Just his hands, as weak as they were, and his imagination—of which he was usually pretty proud… Why was it not enough? What was missing exactly? What the fuck was it that he wanted so much?

In the end, he forced himself to temporarily let go of his cock in order to wrap the thin blanket around him, even if he felt way too hot for this to be comfortable. Because the last coherent part of his mind still did not want to risk being seen in that state. He would die from this fever… probably… maybe even before morning… without ever being able to satisfy this growing need…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope it wasn't too bad for a start! (I'm so anxious about my ability to write smut... *sigh*)
> 
> This chapter is the shortest of all, if you're wondering. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been so hard to write, and then to edit... Honestly, I both like and hate it. We'll see how you feel about it.

“…ver,” he heard through his blurred, feverish mind.

He liked the sound of that voice. A lot more than all the other voices he had heard in the distance during the last few hours. Not a very deep voice, but strong, authoritative. Powerful. So beautiful to him. _More. Talk to me more._

“We did just get back,” the manly voice continued. “They told me I could find you here. But I didn’t expect you would be still lying in bed. Is it not a bit late for that?”

John could not concentrate. He was only paying attention to the pitch of the voice, not the meaning of the words it spoke. It made his cock twitch with want under the blanket. He had been hard for hours now, and more excitation should only bring him pain and discomfort at this point, just as the friction of his hand on his shaft had after too much insistence; yet it did not. The voice gave him a good feeling in his gut, partly filling the curious void he felt… as if it was what he had been waiting for, what he had needed all along.

He heard footsteps, nearer and nearer, until it stopped by the side of his bed. “I’ve asked for a meeting with the Queen to make my report. You are to attend it too.”

The voice paused. Too long. John whined in the improvised pillow. _Don’t stop… Keep talking, whatever you may say…_

“Mr Silver?”

A pleasant shiver ran through him. _Oh fuck, yes! Say it again!_

A hand suddenly touched his right shoulder. Fingers closed around it, the grip not too firm, but enough for John to feel his skin burning from the touch, even through the material of his tunic. It was a sweet burning, so different from the fire killing him inside. From then on, he knew one of the other things he desperately wanted in addition to this voice: this same hand, travelling along every part of his body.

“Nnh…” he moaned as the hand pulled on his shoulder, forcing him to lie on his back, his face—to which some wet curls were now messily sticking—being no longer hidden in the thick blanket. The thin one slipped a bit in the process, uncovering his chest and his stomach. It didn’t make that much of a difference to him, anyway. The fresh air of the night had long since died with the arrival of the dawn, and his tunic, still damp with his sweat, felt even hotter on him now.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Another hand, large and calloused, placed itself on his forehead. A direct touch with this nice warmth. It felt so good. “Fuck, you’re burning up!”

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times because of the light, and then gazed at the man leaning over him with concern. A hard face, shaved head, clenching teeth, clear lips surrounded by red. But most of all, grey-green eyes with a hint of blue, looking as turbulent as a stormy sea. ‘Dive into the sea,’ whispered to him the voice of his desire, ‘let it take you.’ And he complied, not even afraid of drowning. _Captain…_

Sadly the sea then left together with the hand on his forehead.

“I’m going to fetch a doctor.”

And John, even if he did not understand what Flint had just said, having not paid attention to a single word, understood at least one thing: his captain was leaving. _Don’t!_ In disarray, he did the first thing his instinct told him; he grabbed Flint’s hand with all his strength—which meant not much, but his determination would be strong enough to stop him, or so he hoped.

Flint stopped right away. _Victory!_ “What—”

His captain frowned and looked intently at the hand holding his. _Look at me_ , John thought first, eager to plunge into the sea again. But then another tiny thought came to him, and his heart started to beat vividly in his chest, need and fear mixing together in a chaotic feeling. In some corner of his mind, he was aware that his hand, the same one that was now around Flint’s, was still slightly wet with his fluids. Also, in the rush, he had pushed without a care the thin blanket, and it was no longer covering anything.

Flint’s eyes changed targets. They were now set on his body, more specifically his open trousers. Of course, John’s prick could not stay still. Under such a gaze, it jerked happily, as if begging to be taken care of.

“Fuck, that’s disgusting!” shouted Flint, yanking on his hand.

John had no choice but to let go. His hand fell weakly on the bed, and he whined at the lost. That earned him a deadly stare. Not long enough to his liking, though, as the owner of these stormy eyes started to look around, then took a cloth hanging on a beam and wiped frantically his hand with it, muttering something under his breath with this lovely voice of his.

When he finally put the cloth back, Flint looked right at John again.

“Have you no decency? Cover yourself.” His tone was cold and commanding, and John would have probably obeyed had he focused on the order itself. Just so Flint would be pleased. Anything to make the man touch him again.

Instead, he only let out another moaning cry. Seeing these hands that he wanted on his body now out of his reach was absolute torture to him. The need complained strongly inside him, keeping telling him to act somehow. He felt so desperate right now, being too weak to get his way…

Flint sighed after a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. John gazed at him, at the long fingers, as he imagined how they would feel on his face, how they would taste in his mouth. “Forget it… Obviously you’re delirious with fever,” Flint then said before coming closer to the bed, carefully eying John’s right hand as he did so. “Don’t you dare grab me again with your dirty hands, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

John did not know what to do. Flint was suddenly so close, leaning over him. His chest was just above John’s head, naked at the neck of his shirt, revealing the pale skin there decorated with freckles, a few ginger hairs and some grains of sand stuck. He wanted to touch it so badly; he wanted to feel the heat of the skin, the grainy texture of the sand, the softness of the hairs under his fingers. But he stayed still because of what had happened before, too afraid that if he moved even just a little, his captain would be gone again in a split second…

Then, something was forcibly taken from under his head. Not the tick blanket—this one, he could still feel the uncomfortable dampness through his unruly hair—but apparently another one, because the pile was now less high. And indeed, a moment later, Flint rose up, holding a beige blanket in his hands that he unfolded and put on John’s body.

“That’s better.”

After that, Flint turned and started to walk away. Which made John panic completely. _Please, don’t!_ He writhed under the cover, using his only foot and his right hand to pull himself out of the bed. Jesus, it was so fucking hard! _Don’t go! I may die if you do!_ He had to get up. He had to—

He tried to put his foot down, but the rest of his body slipped out of the bed in the process, and then the cover got in the way when he fell on his side, preventing him to catch himself. It might not be high, but the impact with the wooden floor was still violent. John cried out in pain and closed his eyes very tight, his right side—mostly his shoulder, his arm and his thigh—hurting badly. Fuck! So much pain! It should be a turn-off, right? But no, not at all. This profound desire burning inside him was still yelling in his mind, ‘Get him! Don’t let him go!’

“You fucking idiot!” The tone was clearly angry, yet it seemed as if there was also something else in it. Worry?

Quick and loud footsteps resonated on the floor, causing small vibrations that ran through John’s back, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground just beside him. Muttering nearly. “I don’t have time for this shit…”

The next second, these two hands he liked so much were on him, one holding his head from beneath, and the other on his left arm. “Hey, are you all right?” John purred, leaning into the touch. He heard a sigh then. “… Jesus, what were you thinking?”

He opened his eyes, forgetting everything about pain, and faced the sea once more. Her colour had changed; the blue was a bit deeper now, mixing beautifully with the green, offering the view of a storm even stronger. John lost himself in his contemplation, feeling drawn by the black holes at the very centre of the sea. He was slowly sinking into it, into the darkness. _Take me…_

The land surrounding the sea creased itself. A frown. “What did you just say?”

Suddenly, the darkness was gone, as Flint turned his face and placed his ear very close to John’s lips. John could hear his own heartbeats, sounding like a hammer pounding faster and faster. Want was urging him to taste what he was offered, this little piece of flesh pierced with a square-shaped earring of silver. He gulped and licked his lips, hesitating, his fear still strong. If he did this, was he not going to lose it all? ‘You will lose it anyway’, insisted his inner voice. And it was not wrong. He had restrained earlier, and his captain had still walked away from him. So what was the point? Absolutely none, right?

Fear was then of little importance. John surrendered to his desire. He opened his mouth, raised his head and finally grabbed the flesh between his teeth, sucking on it hungrily.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He felt a pull, the flesh trying to escape, and instinctively he clenched his teeth way more on it. “Ouch! You shit, let go of my ear! You hear me?!”

The hand on his shoulder tightened while the one beneath his head violently grabbed and tugged at his hair. John moaned in pain, from both his shoulder and his scalp. Yet, his mouth stayed firmly closed. Flint stopped pulling at once with a growl, even though he did not release his grip on John’s hair—at least, said grip softened a little. Not trustful, John kept his teeth clenched as his tongue started to discover the area in more detail.

The stud of the earring was cold, tasting unsurprisingly like metal and dirt. John played with it, licking and turning around it while continuing sucking on the earlobe. As he did so, he heard a sigh—of exasperation or resignation or anything else, he could not say and he did not really care. He felt a little pressure on his shoulder, but then it was gone; the hand retreated and did not come back—so did its pleasant warmth.

At some point of his exploration, he got to the other side of the earlobe and slipped the tip of his tongue between the earring and the so very soft skin. It happened that some grains of sand were apparently hiding there and, inevitably, they stuck to his tongue. Not having much choice, he swallowed them all, feeling it scratching his throat.

There was another growl, followed by an angry tone, “And what am I supposed to tell the Queen exactly when I’ll be late at the meeting?” Hot breath caressed the back of his neck with each sound that came out, making him shiver. He sucked on the earlobe with even more enthusiasm. “That you mistook me for a whore?” This time, John let out a strangled moan as his cock reacted, twitching pleadingly against the blanket he was still half-wrapped in. “Or that you behaved like one?”

He felt good. Like, better than ever in the past few hours. But it was not enough yet. Obviously. He needed so much more than that. This little piece of flesh was only a foretaste of what he could have, of what he definitely needed. He wanted to touch and discover every part of this body; he wanted to feel it all, taste it all, merge with it somehow. So he started to struggle to free his arms from the cover with renewed energy.

Again, there was a sigh. Loud and long. So hot on his skin, even more than words.

“You’re not listening to anything I say to you, are you?”

In spite of his clumsiness—partly due to his haste—his arms found a way out far more easily than he had expected. Pushing the cover away, he did not waste any more time and put his arms around Flint’s neck. His captain flinched at the touch, grunted almost quietly and straightened all of a sudden, dragging John up with him. For a brief second, John felt intrigued, asking himself if maybe Flint might be hurt, but the thought lost itself with many others in favour of the voice of his desire.

He was more sitting than lying now. Yet, this new position was instable and clearly not comfortable for his back—not to mention his poor neck. His body was naturally pulling him down, only stopped by his arms clinging firmly to Flint. He did not know where his current strength came from. Given how weak the fever made him feel, he should not be able to maintain his grip; but for some reason he could do it, and he had absolutely no intent to let go. He did not care about the growing pain in his collarbone or about anything else. He was holding _him_. The man he wanted so much. It was all that mattered to him.

Well, he had to do something about his position nonetheless. He could hardly stay like that for long. So, under the blanket still spread on his lower body, he pressed the sole of his foot against the floor to try sitting a bit better. Flint growled then, and the hand in John’s hair clenched brutally. _Ow!_ John whimpered. _Not so hard, please!_ He knew deep down that it would not make a difference. He did not exactly picture Flint like the caring type—quite the contrary, actually. Not that it did matter. If the path to get him must be a painful one, so be it. He would not surrender. He needed this; he needed _him_. Or the fire in his gut would never go out.

Thus, it came as a surprise to him when, just as earlier, the hand in his hair relaxed, starting even to massage his scalp, as if trying to apologize for hurting him. John relished this soft touch that contrasted so much with the pain he had just experienced. Warm, sweet pleasure flowed from his scalp to the tips of his toes, and he almost forgot his current objective—almost. Turning his excitation in even more determination, he pushed and pushed again with his foot, his trousers sliding a bit more down each time.

The thing was, he was slow, far too slow, not only because of his bad position, but also—and mostly—because of his handicap… He was beginning to feel very frustrated about it. Want complained in his head, or rather in his cock. It urged him to hurry up… what he would gladly do if he fucking could! But he was there, struggling, tiring himself, all for something so fucking basic as sitting up.

He had made little progress when again Flint growled in his neck. John held his breath, prepared for the pain to come… except that his captain did not pull this time. Instead, he maintained John’s head against his ear while he seemed to change his own position. John could not see anything, yet he felt a leg brush his back as Flint stretched it on the floor.

A moment later, the cover was abruptly removed from his legs and thrown away somewhere in the hut. Flint then placed his free hand on the back of John’s right thigh and lifted it. Though confused, John did not resist when he soon felt himself being slowly pulled on the right. At some point, the hand in his hair left, replaced its sister under his thigh, and John tensed a bit, because his other thigh was in turn lifted up. Still, there was no pain but in his arse, caused by the friction on the wood.

It lasted a minute, maybe less. The sole of his foot brushed Flint’s thigh, and then it met the ground again, hard and cold, while his bad leg rested on Flint’s other thigh. After that, both hands moved to his arse, grabbed the flesh and pulled him closer to the object of his desire.

John moaned in surprise and pleasure. Well, what a change!

He could feel the muscled and tense thighs under his own; he could also feel the hands on his naked buttocks, how warm and strong they were, calloused by years of fighting, of wielding the sword and handling the gun. These were the hands of a true warrior, one who had survived many enemies and still stood, as strong as the first day. One that he should probably fear instead of desiring. But he was too far gone to care, honestly.

“Are you happy now?” His captain clearly sounded irritated. His hands slid from John’s arse to his hips, fingers sinking into them. “Then stop fucking moving. I thought you were going to rip my ear.”

John wanted to rub himself against Flint’s stomach, feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt. His cock was asking for this, even though the friction was likely to hurt. He tried to push forward, to close the short distance separating them, but his captain’s grip was firm and steady. John could not move an inch. Still, he was delighted. This new proximity offered him so many options, so many things he could only dream of before. Flint was finally in his reach, and he was not going anywhere.

Without thinking, John released the earlobe he had been so vividly keeping to himself so far, having now completely lost interest in it. Flint let out a loud sigh of relief just as the tension in his shoulders decreased. John then grasped Flint’s coat in his back and tugged it down, searching to gain access to his neck. His captain grunted in response, seemingly displeased, yet—strangely enough—he did not put a fight about it. It made John feel more confident, as if he held some kind of power on him.

John kissed and licked and nibbled so slightly the skin of Flint’s neck, starting just under the ear and going all the way down to the shoulder. It tasted of salt and sweat and dirt—a common combination for men with their lifestyle, especially since Flint had spent the last few days offshore. Yet, right now, the bitter flavour did not really bother him. In fact, he liked it on Flint. He liked it a lot. Feeling hungry for more, he began to bite and suck on the skin, just at the junction between the neck and the shoulder.

“Stop it,” said Flint between his teeth, pressing his hands even more on John’s hips. John yelped—he did not handle the pain as well as he thought. “Do. Not. Mark. Me.” Cold. Menacing.

These four few words, somehow he understood their meaning without even trying to. Maybe it was the tone, maybe the pause between each one of them, or maybe the pain urged him to listen for once. Whatever it be, John understood and he obeyed instantly. He did not want to irritate his captain even more. For some reason, Flint was not running from him anymore; for some reason, he had allowed John to sit on his lap, to be close to him. This intimacy, it was something John definitely did not want to lose.

As he retreated, his cheek brushed against Flint’s goatee. He gazed at his face then, at the little freckles hidden under the dirt and the sunburns—he counted them distractedly, sought the prettiest. But the grey-green eyes glaring hard at him finally caught all his attention. He blinked, impressed, having not seen them so close yet. There was a glow into them, something that made want squirm more in his stomach. He licked his lips, did not miss the way Flint briefly looked down at them, darkness extending upon the sea.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

For a moment, it was as if time stopped. No move and no sound except for his heart beating furiously in his chest. Then, John surged forward, closing his eyes and capturing Flint’s lips with his own, tasting them with his tongue, teasing, begging for access. At first, Flint did not kiss back, did not even move an inch, his body going tense. John’s kisses became more desperate, hungry, a reflection of the need burning in his gut. He tightened his hands on Flint’s shoulders, chewed on Flint’s lower lip with a whimper, and finally— _fucking finally_ —his captain kissed him back.

It seemed as if Flint lost all restraint after that. He put one of his hands behind John’s head, circled his back with the other, and pulled him closer as he pushed his tongue in John’s mouth, growling, fighting to conquer, turning John into a mess of moans and strangled pleas. John sucked, played with the intrusive tongue—that tasted of rum, with a little aftertaste of stew; his favourite flavour right now—all while pressing and rubbing his cock against Flint’s stomach, pain and pleasure mixing at each of his thrusts.

Suddenly, Flint’s lips and tongue left his mouth. John’s first reaction was to pursue them, eager for more, but the hand behind his head kept him from doing so, fingers pulling on his curly hair just enough to maintain him in place. They were still very close, though, nose to nose, mere inches separating their lips. John could feel Flint’s hot and quick breath on his face. Only then did he realise that he needed to catch his breath too.

He was staring at these lips, now red and swollen. Captivated, he brought a hand to them—for lack of anything better, namely his mouth—and ran his thumb on the lower lip, waiting for an invitation. Fuck, it was wet and soft and hot, and he only wanted to taste them again! He wanted it so badly!

But his captain appeared to have no intention to let him do as he wanted. The hand that had been on his back earlier took John’s and moved it away from Flint’s tantalising lips. John let out a whine of protest, tried to move forward again, to no avail. His eyes set on Flint’s then, a silent plea. _Why? Please… please, just let me—_

“I—I can’t… _This_ is not right…” John could not put the finger on what Flint’s voice sounded like at the moment. He was sure of one thing, though: contrary to before, it held no hint of anger or exasperation… which made just no sense to him. If Flint was not angry with him, why was he rejecting him again?

He gave a broken, desperate moan in response to whatever his captain had said. Then he thrust more vividly against him—even as pain started to override pleasure—in an attempt to hopefully convey how much he needed this. How much he needed _him_.

It only earned him a sigh…

“I’ve seen you with fever before…” Flint said, seemingly unaffected by the repetitive press of John’s shaft against his belly, “and it was nothing like that…” And yet, each fucking time he went down, John could feel the semi-hardness through Flint’s trousers; he could feel it hit the sensitive skin right behind his bollocks. He was so close to what he wanted, yet so far, it seemed…

Flint sighed again—one of those long sighs that usually meant he was losing patience. The next second, he carefully moved his face forward, and John had his hopes up. His heart bumped faster and faster in anticipation… but then these lips he lusted after took another direction, and he felt hot breath caress his ear.

“Listen to me,” Flint told him, slowly enough that John paid attention to his words for the second time in spite of the new rush of blood running to his cock. There was a short pause, then, “Are you listening?”

John tried hard to focus, tried hard to get out of that fog clouding his mind, to silence the voice of his desire constantly shouting in there. He gripped Flint’s shoulder harder, as well as the hand that still held his. He did not know why, but it helped somehow. “Yes…” he finally replied. He did not even recognise his own voice through this whisper; it just sounded so needy, so broken.

His captain let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I need to know now… Are you aware that you have been drugged?”

Oh, fuck. His ear was burning from such teasing. He could imagine— _No, no, focus, damn it! What did he say?_ John inhaled and exhaled really slow, forced himself to remember the few words instead of thinking of what he wanted Flint to do to his ear. _Drugged? Who, me? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. It’s just a…_

“…fever…” It was just that, right? Nothing but a fever. Jesus, he had forgotten how hard it was to think… He was on the verge of letting go again…

“Likely to be a reaction to the drug you ingested,” Flint explained calmly.

 _No, no… What are you talking about? I…_ “…don’t do… drugs…”

Fuck, his cock hurt so much… He was not going to find release, never, all because Flint did not want him to…

“I know.” _Then why are we losing our time with this nonsense?_ “I don’t care how it happened.” _You don’t care about me…_ “What I care about is what it does to you.” _You don’t care, or you’d help me…_ “I would like to have Dr Howell take a look at you.” _Dr Howell can go fuck himself! I want you! Why can’t I have you? Why are you keeping me away no matter what I do? Damn your voice, damn your hands, damn your lips and your skin and your cock! Damn you! I’m going to die, Captain, and it’s on you! You! You! You!_

He was done listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. :p (Please, don't kill me, I couldn't do otherwise!)
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the previous chapter, I had a hard time working on this one, but I hope you'll like it anyway! :)

John sank his teeth deep into Flint’s flesh, right where he had tried to leave a mark earlier. First, he heard the cry of pain. Next, he felt the sharp tug in his hair and the crush of his hand, all while threatening words were being thrown at him. But he did not care for any of that; he kept biting like an enraged dog, with the intent to do harm. There was only fury and pain in his mind now. Nothing mattered anymore.

Warm drops of liquid filled his mouth when the soft skin finally broke. He sucked around and swallowed, once, twice, more. Bitter, metallic, salty… the taste of revenge remained in his mouth strongly after each swallow. Revenge did not taste good, but it felt good in some way.

John did not register when his hand was released, but that was when the fight became really messy. Flint struggled against him, ruthless as the warrior he was, his free hand pushing and punching and gripping, looking for any weakness. Inevitably, at some point, it also attacked John’s bad leg. Fingers pressed viciously into the wound through his trousers—which were a very poor protection, really. John’s reaction was quick: he groaned and bit even more into the flesh. The hand did not stay here long.

Yet, in the end, it found a weak spot. When suddenly Flint’s hand wrapped around his prick, John gasped and trembled at the sensation, sparks of pleasure and pain shooting through him. The needy voice in his head was so pleased, shouting a litany of ‘yes, yes, more’. It made it difficult to think even just a little, let alone find a way to fight back. Then Flint’s hand squeezed hard, and it hurt so much, as if there were hundreds of little thorns in his cock, stinging and itching under the skin. In a split second, John felt weaker than ever, his muscles turning to jelly. As a result, his jaw became slack, his mouth opened, and then his head was yanked back.

“You need to calm down… now,” said Flint, his tone slow—and so very commanding.

John breathed in shallow, quick gasps. Staring into Flint’s sharp eyes with the strong feeling of being squashed like a little bug, he swallowed the last remnants of his fit of rage. Once again, he was conflicted between two kinds of voices. The eager one, which wanted to obey, wanted to do anything for this man if it meant he could get to be touched more intimately in reward; and the bitter one, which knew that it was all pointless, that he would not get anything but pain and despair and that he would only die a dog’s death in the end… But the second voice held no more fury, no more desire to hurt; it sounded as though it had lost its will to fight. It sounded… hopeless? Hopeless, indeed, as a new feeling forced itself on the others, dominating his mind in no time: fear…

Well, this feeling was not exactly _new_. It had been there all along, in a corner of his head, always since John had woken up with this consuming need. Who would not be scared, when being faced with the unknown? Worse, when having absolutely no control over it?

But right now? This feeling was bubbling up to the surface as something suddenly became so clear to him: this whole situation was hopeless… it had been hopeless from the very beginning… _I’m going to die…_ Oh, shit… It had never felt so real, so… definitive. He was so screwed, all because he was too weak… _powerless_ … Ultimately, if Flint decided not to give him what he wanted, John had just no way to get it. It was the cruel truth he had to face.

His throat tightened, and a strangled sob came out. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. _I—I don’t want to die… not now… not so pathetically…_ Making use of the little strength he had left, he grabbed the front of Flint’s shirt with both hands. _I don’t want to die I don’t want to die please Captain don’t let me die don’t let me die don’t let me die—_

The pressure on his cock vanished then, sweeping away the last bit of pleasure, only leaving him with the throbbing pain and the constant need. The expression on Flint’s face was a mix of concern and confusion.

“You are not actually dying, Mr Silver. It is the drug—”

_Don’t say that! I told you! You think you know what I’m going through but you don’t! You don’t! You know nothing, Captain!_

Maybe he had still some fight left in him after all, because the next thing he knew, they were both falling after he had pushed angrily on Flint’s chest.

Flint let out a grunt when his back collided with the ground. John, who got pulled down by the hand holding his hair as well as his own hands still clinging to Flint’s shirt, had his breath cut off by the sudden impact. He coughed near Flint’s ear, which apparently did not please his captain, because then his head was forcibly moved in the other direction.

It took him a few seconds to calm down and catch his breath. Under his hands, he could feel Flint’s chest heaving up and down, less chaotically than his own, and he ended up imitating the rhythm to feel a bit better.

After that, John wriggled as best as he could, attempting to put himself in a position where the bone of both Flint’s hips would not press badly against his thighs—his left side did not like when something pushed on its nerves too much. But of course his painful cock had to rub against Flint’s large leather belt in the process, making him feel all weak again.

He barely noted the way Flint tensed under him. He was too busy clenching his eyes shut, biting his lips and staying still. ‘Come on, move! Help yourself!’ insisted the voice of his desire. He shook his head to chase it away—well, he tried, anyway, given that his hair was still to the mercy of Flint’s firm hand.

Fuck, he was so tired and in pain… It was not getting any better… only worse… _I’m dying… I…_ He started to sob frantically. _Maybe I should just give up… let it all end…_

He was there, resigning himself, when Flint suddenly moved, placing his free arm around John’s back. The next second, John felt his whole left side being pushed up. It happened so fast, actually, that he did not understand what was going on before it was too late.

And so, just like that, their position was reversed. John’s back was now on the wooden floor, Flint on top of him. With tears still in his eyes, John blinked stupidly, looking at his captain with confusion. _What? How did you—_

Flint released John’s hair without a damn reason, pulled out his arm from under John’s body, and then put both his hands on the ground, on opposite sides of John’s head. Very soon after, he was pretty much sitting on his knees with John’s legs between his, surely leaning over John only because John still held his shirt. _Wait, does that mean—Is it really the end, then? Are you leaving? Am I to die in agony, discarded as a useless tool?_

‘Cling to him! Just cling to him!’ The fog in his head was suffocating. He wanted to put an end to this, to escape the growing pain and the burning feeling and that needy voice that was so not like him… For a moment, he was tempted to let go of Flint’s shirt. He almost did. But then, he realised— _No no no! Who am I kidding with this shit?! I’m not ready to die! Never ever and certainly not now!_ It was probably just his survival instinct talking, but it did its job well nonetheless. So he clenched his hands more on the neck of Flint’s shirt and pulled on it in a desperate move, stretching the fabric, begging Flint with teary eyes, his throat too tight to form any word. _Wait wait wait please I need you please you have to stay or I—_

“It’s all right,” Flint said a bit roughly, wearing an indecipherable expression on his face. _What are you saying ‘it’s all right’ it’s not all right at all you don’t understand I’m…_ “I’ll do it.” _…dying like a beast on the fucking floor and you fucking heartless—wait what?_ “I’ll give you what you want.”

John’s breath caught in his lungs. _Did he say—Have I really heard it right?_ His heart sped up as a wave of excitement ran through him. ‘You did it! You did it!’ repeated enthusiastically the voice in his mind.

He did not resist when Flint’s hands came on his own and removed his grip on the shirt. _What if he is lying? What if it’s all a trap?_ he vaguely thought, but the fog was too thick again; it was already too hard to find his way in there. And so, slowly, one of the voices faded away in favour of the other…

Flint put John’s hands away and sat upright on John’s thighs. He looked even more powerful right now with his eyes staring down at him, still more black than green. John was so mesmerised that he did not notice that one of Flint’s hands was moving to a new target. What he noticed, however, was the feel of said hand when it placed itself around his length, making him both flinch and hold his breath. Thankfully, it seemed as though this time the touch was not hostile. The pressure was soft and warm, nothing as before, the perfect balance for pleasure to overcome the pain. Apprehension was fast gone, replaced by a thrill.

But then the hand began to stroke his raging cock, raw and quick. John tensed at the sensation; he pushed his limbs against the floor, and his fingers contorted, scratching the wood with their all too bitten nails. It fucking hurt! The pain might not be as violent as when Flint had intended to hurt him, but it was still very unpleasant. _Come on, I can take it!_ The hand slipped more easily at each back and forth motion thanks to the fluid it collected and spread on its way. _Yes, yes, I can take—_ A little squeeze, no slowing down, and John whined loudly, because _fuck no!_ the pain was just too much to take. It was worse than last night, worse than the touch of his own hand after having jerked off for too long. Hell, he wanted this man, all of him; he craved his voice and his eyes and his touch and he was going mad with wanting so much. But this? This was pain and pain and only more pain. Was it all what he was going to get? Because that was not what he wanted—and definitely not what he needed!

All at once, the hard movement stopped and something covered his mouth, muffling his cries. Something being Flint’s other hand.

“Keep quiet, for fuck’s sake!” whispered his captain through gritted teeth while looking nervously to the entrance of the hut. “Have you any idea what it looks like?! Do you really want someone to come in right now? It is embarrassing enough as it is, don’t make it worse…”

Too confused, John barely listened to the first two words coming out from Flint’s mouth. _Keep quiet…_ But he could not suppress another moaning cry. The irritated skin of his cock still ached under the unmoving hand.

Flint narrowed his eyes and looked at him intently, as though he was trying to read right through his soul. Could he? “I don’t understand…” His eyes went from John to his prick then to John again. “Does it hurt? Am I too… rough?”

 _Hurt! Yes! Yes, I’m hurting!_ John nodded frantically.

Flint’s hand loosened on his shaft right away, and then started moving again, way more slowly. It was good, in a sense, the gentle and wet caress of these calloused fingers, but even so John could not relax and enjoy the touch. The pain was still too big; the slightest rubbing sent stings under his skin.

“I can hardly be softer…” said his captain with a deep frown. This time, he removed entirely his hand from John’s cock, leaving him feeling conflicted between want and relief.

There was a moment of inaction, of absolute silence. Then, Flint uncovered John’s mouth and simply retreated, letting out a long sigh.

“How long exactly have you been in that state…?”

John only longed for Flint’s touch again now that the pain was becoming more bearable, yet his captain did not make another move. He kept his hands on his knees and had a distant look, as if he were not really _here_ anymore. John did not like it… _You said you would give me what I want…_ He brushed Flint’s hands with his fingertips to try and communicate his need.

Flint jerked at the touch, moving his hands away. John’s heart ached in response, while restlessness started to grow fast in his confused mind. He had no time to wonder about his captain’s reaction, however, because Flint leaned over him after yet another sigh.

“Tell me, Mr Silver,” he asked so very slowly then, his face only inches from John’s, “what is it that you want from me…?”

The question repeated itself in John’s head, his inner voice giving a different answer each time. Which one was the good one? Was there only a good one? No. No, because he wanted all of these things. He wanted the heat of Flint’s breath on his skin, the whisper of his voice in his ear, the softness of his lips on his own, the wetness of his tongue in his mouth, the roughness of his hands on his body and in his hair, the hardness of his cock against him… into him… He wanted to feel good… He wanted to feel good and at last to find release…

So he acted according to his desires. Ignoring the way his heart clenched with fear of being rejected again, he brought a hand behind Flint’s head and pulled him into a kiss. Their lips met, and John closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Flint’s moustache and beard gently scratching against his. He parted his lips, put out his tongue, expecting to be met with a wall of teeth, but surprisingly he found no resistance: Flint opened his mouth straight away and welcomed him inside. Their tongues then began a new fight in this arena—or was it more like a dance? A chaotic and feverish dance known only to them. John’s moans came out strangled as he tried to hold them back, the words “ _keep quiet_ ” still resonating strongly into his mind.

The kiss was followed by another one, just as intense and messy than the first one, and then another one, and another one, and there was just no end to it. Between kisses, John nibbled Flint’s lower lip between his teeth, teasing him, making him groan and charge with even more ardour.

He was there, lost in delightful sensations, when something else caught his whole attention. Something hard and long and hot, pressing on his naked thigh, just below his hip. He could feel it so perfectly through Flint’s tight trousers: Flint’s cock… now just as stiff as his… The fire in his gut increased drastically, and his arse clenched and unclenched, as if to send a message. He needed this, now!

“Fuck me…”

The words came out as a whisper, yet John knew he had somehow been heard, because then Flint’s jaw tensed under his lips.

“Please… please…” he begged at the corner of Flint’s mouth, going up to his ear to add, “I need your cock inside me… I need it so bad, Captain…”

Flint gave a shudder and a gulp at his words. But besides that, he did not move at all… didn’t say anything either. John was slowly taken by a feeling of dread. Would he refuse him after all? Would he?

He went on his pleas, nibbled and kissed Flint’s earlobe, rubbed himself against Flint’s cock, hoping to get an answer of some sort. _Come on, please, give me it!_

He was growing desperate again when at last his captain moved—well, he moved back, which was not really positive, but he stopped behaving like a pillar of salt, at least. John tried to follow him, but Flint put a firm hand on his chest, forcing him to stay lying down.

“Don’t.”

John obeyed, did not fight the distance forming between them; he let his hand slide along Flint’s neck and fall limply alongside him. Soon enough, Flint was sitting completely straight once again. He took off his coat with grace then, folded it and put it to the side. Meanwhile, John gazed hungrily at him, licking his lips and holding back a hum of appreciation. He could picture the strong muscles hidden under the last layer of upper clothes. Oh, how he wanted to touch, to feel the strength of these arms! ‘Do it,’ said the voice in his head, tempting. But Flint’s voice echoed even stronger, _“don’t”_ , and so John forced himself to stay still, not wanting to upset his captain by interrupting him in his task.

After having taken off his belt too and left it with his coat, Flint grabbed both sides of John’s open trousers and slowly pulled them. John’s bad leg was freed first, Flint’s hands removing carefully the fabric from the wound. Flint stopped for a few seconds after that, casting an unnecessary glance at John’s stump, and John felt something… something bad and ugly, a little thought far inside… quickly forgotten when fingers dug into the bottom of his thighs and lifted them up—with John’s trousers still hanging from his right leg.

Flint moved closer, pressing his trapped hardness against John’s arse, pushing on his thighs to lean further forward. John felt his heat so strongly, even though Flint’s clothes still stood between them. He just could not repress the long, needy moan that seeped out of his throat.

Flint glared at him in response, silencing him by covering his mouth, just like before.

“I told you to keep quiet.” A low, scolding tone, followed by an anxious look at the entrance of the hut. Obviously, the hesitation was back…

‘Don’t let him back away!’ yelled John’s inner voice, the thought twisting his guts with fear. As if he would!

He put his arms around Flint’s neck, pulled him closer as he licked the palm on his mouth. It had the expected outcome: he regained the attention of these two dark orbs right away.

Flint removed his hand, caressed John’s lips with his thumb, waiting for John to touch it with the tip of his tongue to shove it in the opening. Pleased by the offering, craving for anything, everything, John sucked on it fervently, the salty flavour of the sea spreading in his mouth.

“We don’t have much time,” said Flint while looking around, seemingly searching for something. “They’ll send someone for us, if they haven’t already.”

He let out a sigh then, set his eyes on John. “There is nothing of use here. As it is, what you’re asking for… it won’t be as pleasant as you think. It’s more likely it will hurt. A lot. Do you still want this?”

John barely caught a few words in what Flint was saying, and he could not concentrate long enough to make sense of them. He tried to be patient, tried to please Flint as much as possible, but right now he could only think of the hard cock pressed against him. The fire inside him only got stronger by the minute, wiping away all that was left of his mind apart from this single thought.

“…need…” he insisted, Flint’s thumb still in mouth. “…need you… please…”

Flint clenched his jaw, closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he reopened them, he had a look of determination. He replaced his thumb with two longer fingers that John treated with the same passion. Not long after, he removed them, grabbed the front end of John’s tunic and lifted it abruptly.

The hair on John’s stomach stood on end upon contact with air. He was shivering, even though inside he burned all the same.

Flint brought the cloth to John’s face then, forced it into his mouth.

“Bite on this. I don’t want you to be noisy.”

John tasted his own sweat, tepid and bitter, on the piece of cloth, yet he bit on it, assuming that was what was expected of him. No sooner had he complied that he felt wet fingers run along the crease of his arse. His breath hitched as one of the fingers made its way between his buttocks, touching his hole, pushing to break through. He knew this weird sensation of intrusion, a distant memory coming back to him through the fog, a whisper in his head, telling him to relax, to let it go. He felt so sensitive, though. His whole body was responding to Flint’s touch, burning, sweating, contracting…

“You’re too tense…” A whisper in his ear, then the finger withdrew. _No! No, don’t fucking—_ John heard a sound of spitting, and shortly after the sensation came back. He closed his eyes, focused on the hot and wet flesh forcing its way into him, inch by inch. He felt Flint’s grip on his left thigh increase at the same time, rough fingers feeling like the straps of leather of his peg leg. _Jesus, it’s so—_ The finger moved inside, pushing against his inner walls, and John quivered, jerked his hips as a pulse of pleasure flew through him. _More! Give me more!_

Soon, another finger joined the first, making John cry out, the sound muffled by the material he was still biting on strongly. He tensed again in spite of himself, the uncomfortable pressure and burn sending the wrong message to his body.

“You’re so fucking tight…” Flint grumbled, his fingers scissoring, stretching, working John open without a care for his whines.

Finally, after a long moment of discomfort, John’s arsehole stopped fighting the intrusion, even welcomed it, sucking on the two fingers to encourage them to touch his sensitive spot again and again as they moved back and forth at a steady rhythm.

John clung on Flint’s neck more, rolling his hips to meet the fingers deeper—even though it also made his cock rub against Flint’s stomach, bringing on the pain of irritated skin each fucking time. He just could not help it. He wanted this, wanted even more, and the consuming fire was urging him to get it, and fast. “Fu…k…pl…se…” he begged with teary eyes, the piece of his tunic almost dropping from his mouth. “Pl…se…put…it…n…”

His captain said nothing, but his fingers were gone in a split second, leaving John feeling empty. The hand holding his thigh left too, and then there was the pop of trousers being unbuttoned and hurried movements near John’s arse that he could not identify.

Suddenly, fingers gripped his thigh again and pushed it slightly while a hand got between his buttocks—a hand holding something warm and damp. He felt the head of Flint’s cock teasing his hole, wetting it with the small amount of fluid leaking from its tip. He let out a muffled moan in response, pushed back against it.

But then he held his breath, clenched his teeth hard on the fabric in his mouth as the hard and thick cock breached him.

“Relax,” Flint whispered in his ear, almost kindly. “Just breathe.”

 _Breathe…_ A simple act, yet he could not find the way to do so right now. He had only the pain of penetration in mind, the feeling of this big thing pushing forcibly against his entrance. A voice trapped into the fog cried for Flint to make it stop, while another, louder voice asked endlessly for more more more. His lungs started to itch, and he was not relaxing at all, until wet lips softly touched the base of his neck and teeth grazed his skin, making him shudder and exhale air through his nose. He took another breath, released it, took another and so on.

“Good… That’s it, keep it up.”

Flint’s breath was hurried and hot on his neck. When he talked, his moustache tickled John, making him snort and relax just a little bit.

At last, the head of Flint’s cock managed to secure its position inside him, passing entirely the ring of muscles. From there, things went easier. The warm and damp hand between John’s buttocks moved under his right knee, grabbed his thigh with the same strength as the other, and Flint began to push into him in fits and starts, all while kissing and nibbling his neck—not sucking on it though. It distracted John enough for him to be less concerned about the burning caused by the friction—that of the cock rubbing on his insides—even if he could still feel it.

His captain gave a low groan when he finally bottomed out, his bollocks and thighs pressed solidly against John’s arse.

“I will not last long…” he said, drawing in a ragged breath, and his cock throbbed into John, as if to emphasise his words.

A moment passed. No move, nothing but panting and heat and the feel and smell of sweat and the length inside him seeming to harden even more. Growing impatient, John whined through his gag. In response, Flint pulled out almost all the way, until only the tip of his cock was still inside, and then slowly thrust back into him. So, so slowly that John desperately tried to push back against him; but fingers were digging hard into both his thighs—so hard it would surely leave marks—keeping him from moving as much as he should be able to.

“Fast…r!” he cried between two broken moans. He let go of Flint’s neck, brought his hands to Flint’s arse instead and squeezed it, pulled it to increase the rhythm.

His captain grunted in his ear. “Fuck, don’t—” He lifted his head up and glared at him. “I told you I—”

John did not let him finish whatever he was saying; he asked for more, pleading also with his eyes as he squeezed harder on the smooth flesh of Flint’s arse.

“All right, I’ll give you more,” Flint began to pull out again, “but do not complain if I’m done too soon…” and, this time, he slammed back into him.

A strangled moan escaped John, echoing Flint’s groan. He had no time to adapt to this new rhythm, Flint’s cock already going back and forth, deeper and faster, burning his insides even more. It hit John’s sensitive spot with strength, sending a shot of pleasure through him.

“Ag…n!”

Flint did not relent. If something, he became even wilder, pushing so hard that John’s back hurt from rubbing against the floor. After a few thrusts, John’s arse clenched strongly, his inner walls closing around the hot length inside him. He could feel it, how close they both were.

“Nhh, don’t—” Flint said between his teeth. “You’re—”

John gripped Flint’s thighs, forced him to thrust back into him with the same passion than before. He felt muscles contract into his hands.

“Fuck, I—I’m—” Flint exhaled hotly against John’s neck, his cock jerked, and then warm liquid spurted deep inside John.

With a gasp, John dug his fingers hard into Flint’s thighs, overwhelmed with pleasure. Flint’s throbbing cock was shooting load after load of his seed inside him, filling him up with a few slow thrusts. Finally, he had what he needed so much. Finally, this feeling of want oppressing him felt utterly contented. Finally, all the tension in John’s bollocks dissolved, and he reached his own release with a long moan, quivering uncontrollably as he came hard between them, some of his semen falling on his bare stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know this: Silver always gets what he wants. Always. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

The world behind his closed eyelids was white; his mind was out of touch with reality. The only thing he was aware of was the deafening sound of his own heartbeats—fast, so fast—coupled with his laboured breathing.

It might have been seconds; it might have been minutes. Slowly, quietly, the big, thick fog in his head was receding. _Fuck, I’m so fucking tired…_ was his first coherent thought. Yet he felt good. Better than most days. His body was relaxed, his mind too. Even his wound—usually so damn painful, especially these days—did not ache.

Little by little, John began to awaken, to become aware of the world—the real world, hard and cold, as the surface on which he was lying. He had no energy, no desire to move. He could feel his chest heaving, a bit more calmly now, the regular beat of his heart lulling him to sleep one more time. _…tired…_ But suddenly something warm and flat—a hand?—set on his heart, startling him, and just stayed here for one, two, three, too many seconds. There was a sigh of relief, and finally the hand left. Then, a weight on his thighs that he had not noticed before vanished. He hissed at the same time, feeling something soft and wet pulling out of his arse.

His backside was sore and stretched; it reminded him of a weird and familiar feeling from a distant past—a temptation, filled with curiosity, which had turned into regret. _There’s something wrong…_ He felt a sudden surge of panic. He had a dream just before. _Was it a dream?_ Flint had been here in the hut with him, talking to him, touching him, and John had felt so strange, and so he had— _Wait a minute… I had a fever last night, I remember now. For some reason, I started to jerk off in my bed, and… and… Fuck, why is this so blurry? Did I fall asleep?_

There was movement so close to him. Sounds of clothes rubbing against skin, followed by buttoning. Shortly after, John felt the vibration of footsteps on the floor, heard them distinctively, quick and heavy. He swallowed and stayed still. He was not alone… _Who? Flint?_ No, Flint was just part of the dream. ‘But you’re not in your bed.’ _I must have fallen in my sleep._ ‘And removed your trousers with this? Good move.’ All right… there was definitely something wrong… Was it just a continuation of the dream? ‘A pretty realistic dream, don’t you think?’ _No no no, there’s nothing real about this!_ His stump did not even hurt. It should be enough of a proof, no? _See? It’s just a dream, John Silver. A fucked up dream from which you’re going to wake up very soon._ ‘Hmm, your arse hurt, though.’

Just when this thought crossed his mind, he felt a cloth being pushed roughly between his buttocks. He gasped, kicked whoever was in front of him. But a hand, large and strong, caught his ankle before it hit anything, holding it firmly, and spread his leg without an effort.

“Keep calm, I’m only trying to clean you…” grumbled a very familiar voice while the cloth was rubbing up and down against his arsehole.

John turned pale in a split second. “Captain?” he asked, finally opening his eyes.

He leaned on his elbows to watch the man crouching in front of him. It was indeed Flint, frowning and looking him right in the eye.

“Who the fuck else would it be?”

John blinked, taken aback. Who else? The right answer would be no one. No one should be touching him so intimately without his consent. _Remember, it’s just a dream._ ‘Weird. Are you not supposed to wake up when you open your eyes?’ _Did I open my eyes?_ ‘You certainly did.’ His heart was starting to race again as panic spread deeper into him. He did not know what was wrong or right. It was not unheard of, waking up in a dream before truly waking up. It could yet be a vivid dream.

“Am I still dreaming?”

He had not meant to say anything; the question just slipped out. But the look of surprise on Flint’s face said it all: this was not a dream; there had been no dream. And if John had not been totally convinced yet, the mark he had left at the base of Flint’s neck—that he could clearly see right now with the way Flint’s shirt was crumpled—would have crushed any hope he might have had. Dreams were anything but perfect; they often lacked some details from a moment to another. Sadly, this whole scene seemed to have no inconstancies when compared with the previous one, or at least what he could remember of it. ‘Look around, face it—’

“You were not dreaming,” Flint confirmed together with John’s inner voice. His tone was deadly serious, his eyes too. “It looked as if you were under the influence of something. But, whatever it might be, it seems that the effects are finally wearing off.”

John had no time to think about what he was just told that Flint moved a hand towards his face. He wanted to back away—by fear or confusion or whatever it was that he felt right this moment—yet he did not make a single move. He was just petrified. The back of Flint’s hand touched his forehead then, neither harshly nor gently—a lot like the touch of a doctor, actually.

A few seconds passed before Flint said, “As I thought, your fever is down.”

He removed his hand, got up and put the dirty cloth on the end of the bed.

“What do you mean, I was under the influence of something?” John managed to ask at last, even though he was barely coming in terms with the fact that all this was real.

“I’m not having this conversation again,” replied coldly—almost angrily—the captain, the pale green of his eyes flashing as if the storm were coming. “You’re free to think it was just a fever if it makes you feel better.”

John frowned, only more and more confused by the situation. What had he said wrong exactly? _Hmm, did he not tell “again”? Oh, I see… We must have talked about it while I—_

A cloth suddenly fell on his chest—not the dirty one but a clean cloth.

“You should clean your own mess since you’re awake now,” Flint pointed out, eying John’s stomach and chest, on which drops of semen were starting to stick. John sat up and complied immediately. Sooner he would get rid of any proof of what transpired here, sooner he could put this incident behind him. “Pull on your trousers while you’re at it.”

He did not like Flint’s tone… he did not like it at all. He might be wrong about it, but he felt as though Flint was trying to embarrass him, to make him feel ashamed. _Do I feel ashamed about this?_ John was not sure he did. He had had no control over it, after all. It had just happened, independently of his will. He could blame the fever, he could blame Flint, he could blame himself, none of this would change a thing. In the end, he still had had sex with Flint.

Besides, had they not both taken part in this act? Flint had known what he was doing, he had agreed to that, whatever his reasons. So did they not carry the same damn responsibility? Why should John have to endure Flint’s contempt? As if Flint was better than him!

Ultimately, all John wanted was to move on and get back to their partnership. He wanted to be treated with the same small form of respect he had been since they had hunted those sharks together, since he had come clean about his part in the theft of the Urca gold. Was it so hard, really? Did Flint see him differently now? Like what, a fucking mistake? Yet surely Flint had done this before—he had seemed to know exactly what to do, from what John vaguely remembered of the act. _I can’t have imagined that…_ So what? It could not have been so bad, could it?

Flint picked up his belt on the floor and put it on while John was slowly pulling on his trousers, trying not to hurt his stump by any way. He did not understand yet how it was possible that he currently felt no pain near the wound, not even the usual nerve ache that followed any effort. He was not complaining—obviously—but, in his experience, it was too good to last, and he had every intention to make it last as long as he could. So what if he took a little more time to get dressed? It would not be the end of the world!

“Does it hurt?” Flint was watching him, his expression blank.

John simply shook his head. He did not know if Flint meant his leg or his arse or even his prick. Either way, he did not want to talk about it. No, his leg did not hurt, even though Flint had pressed badly on it earlier—hell, yes, that he remembered well! His arse hurt, of course, thanks to Flint’s cock and roughness. As for his prick, well, there remained an uncomfortable irritation due to his long effort to relieve himself last night. But it was nothing he could not endure as long as he was careful about his movements—what was a little pain, compared to what he suffered all so often since Dr Howell had cut his leg? In the end, none of this stopped him from putting his trousers back on, tucking his tunic into them and buttoning them. There, all ready.

He let out a sigh, feeling that today was going to be a long day. Flint’s return to the camp meant the plan was in motion. Their fleet against the new governor’s. Would it be enough? He doubted it. The path they had chosen, fighting instead of surrendering, it was a long and hard one, filled with many battles. They would have to be smarter than their enemy. One false move could lead them to disaster. ‘May fucking with your captain be considered as a false move?’ _Oh, shut up!_ But the question was a fair one…

His thoughts were interrupted by Flint extending a hand to him. John did not hesitate and took it, knowing well he could not get up on his own right now. Flint pulled him up, and John hissed as the sudden movement awoke the pain in his backside. He clenched his teeth, tried to ignore the cold shiver that ran through him then as he forced himself to rise. Once he was standing up, Flint put his other hand around John’s waist and led him carefully to the bed three steps further.

Now lying down, John sighed again. He would get used to the pain, and he knew it would go away at some point, but for now he could only think of that. He did not feel good. He felt weak again. He did not want to be _that_ —especially not in front of Flint.

Flint turned his back to him, seemingly unaware of John’s inner turmoil, and bent down to pick up his coat neatly folded on the floor. John cast him a glance, trying to focus on anything but the dull pain in his insides. He had a full view of Flint’s arse and muscled thighs, whose curves were revealed by the tight trousers. Absentmindedly, he wondered if Flint had ever taken it in the arse. Probably not. He was not a man to allow himself to lose control—or maybe he was, but only with his loved one? What did John know, after all? He had only seen Flint being vulnerable with one person, and they were a she— _and dead with it, may she rest in peace_. Did Flint even have slept with anyone since Mrs Barlow’s death? Fuck, he had not thought of that! What if Flint considered what they had done as a lack of respect to his time of grief, to Mrs Barlow’s memory? Would he resent John for that, for tempting him? Would he?

The captain had risen up with his coat in hand, back straight. John set his eyes on Flint’s back, not really watching, still lost in thought, but then a detail caught his attention and brought him back to the present moment. Just under the right shoulder, Flint’s shirt was ripped, as if it had been cleanly cut by a blade. Around the cut, John could see dark stains of dried blood—or so he assumed.

“You’ve got hurt?” he asked, blinking, forgetting all about his previous worries. The question was barely out of his mouth that realisation came to him. He forced himself to sit up—despite the lack of comfort of this position for his sore arse—as he voiced his thought: “Blackbeard?” _What happened? What have you done?_

Flint turned to him and nodded. “You can imagine he was not so inclined to give us the fleet back,” he said matter-of-factly. “I had no choice but to challenge him.”

_Well, we knew he would likely appropriate the ships and men, but I thought—Is it not Vane you should have talked into this? He’s in charge of the fleet. Surely the men would have followed him, Teach be damned. Or is his legend so great that you had to kill him for them not to fear his wrath?_

John could not understand Flint’s logic. “You had to? Really?”

He thought of this time in the cage, when Flint had almost sacrificed himself for them to live, assuring him it was the safest plan they could come with. He had not believed him then; he still did not believe him now. Challenging Teach had not been Flint’s only option. It had been the most reckless one. A way to challenge Death itself again, and then what? Come unscathed—or almost—of that, prove to everyone he was unkillable? _Fucking lunatic! What was Billy thinking, letting him take such a decision?! He could have died, and our future with him!_

Flint put on his coat in a swift move and looked right at him, his brow furrowed. When he gave him an answer, his voice sounded slightly upset, “Teach was never committed to our cause and has no intent to be, even now. Nassau means nothing to him.” John frowned. _Wait, what do you mean, ‘even now’? Did you not kill Teach?_ He had no time to intervene, though, as Flint just went on, “I know what you’re thinking. I should have talked to Vane directly, and I did so. You know what his answer was? ‘I owe him.’ He couldn’t even decide for himself. So did I have to do this? Yes, I had to try and do something.”

The same thought was swirling in his head, again and again, and John had to let it out in the end. “He’s still alive…”

“Beg pardon?”

“Teach. You’ve challenged him and won, and yet you talk about him as if he’s still alive. You wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t true. But why? Why did you let him live? What if he’s seeking revenge eventually?”

Flint did not say anything. He just stood straight, watching him, waiting for him to—

“It’s the other way around,” said John with wide eyes. “You’ve lost the fight.”

A horrible feeling ran through him as the weight of this revelation crushed him. Flint had failed them; he had not brought the fleet back. He had come back with nothing but empty hands. _Damn! How can you be so calm about that?! How do you expect to achieve anything now?!_

A vague of anger and frustration swept over John. It was over. All this, all the sacrifices and the pain, had been meaningless. He clenched his fists, swallowed against a tight throat. But then his own little voice whispered to him in his head, ‘You have not asked yourself the right questions.’ He had a hunch, a feeling poking at him. _I’m missing something… All right, what is it? What the fuck did I—Oh._

“How come you’re not dead, then?” he asked, his anger deflating at once, replaced by curiosity. “From what they say about the great Blackbeard, he’s not a merciful man. I even think that putting an end to your legend would have filled him with satisfaction.”

“And you would be right about that.” Flint approached the bed, his eyes still on John, and added, “I had help from Charles Vane.”

“He saved your life? So he changed his mind after all? He decided to come with you?”

“He did.”

A sigh of relief escaped John. “So the men and the ships—”

“We still don’t have them,” Flint said, interrupting him with the same impassive voice. “They are part of Teach’s crew now.”

Well, relief had not lasted long…

John ran a hand over his face, feeling tired by the inconstancy of his own emotions. “Tell me you have a plan.”

He heard a slight sound coming from the end of the bed. When he looked up, Flint was holding his peg leg.

“Actually, I do, Mr Silver,” the captain replied with a gleam in his eyes. “And since you seem so eager for answers, I assume it means you’re feeling much better.” He handed him the boot. “Get ready, the Queen is waiting for us.”


	6. Chapter 6

Well, John might have been a bit anxious about the meeting with the Queen, given what he had found out earlier, but it had not been as bad as he had expected it to be. Yes, Flint was not back with the fleet they had promised to the Queen, and yes, predictably, she had not been pleased with it. At this point, having Charles Vane’s support had been a poor consolation. No fleet, no war, or so the Queen—and John, by the way—had thought. But then Flint, together with Vane, had exposed their new plan in a well-prepared speech. John had been seduced in no time. The Queen, not so much, but that was all they had, and she must be aware of that. Ultimately, she had given her agreement.

This new plan was shaky at best, filled with many uncertainties, yet John could see its potential. If they succeeded to meet all the conditions, they would get a certain advantage. They already had the strategic place: this island, just as John had wanted. Now they just had to get the bait, weapons and possibly more fighters. And yes, sadly, all of those things happened to be in Nassau… the enemy’s lair… which made this whole idea kind of dangerous, if not just suicidal. But really, they had got through worse. A storm, for one thing. Not to mention weeks of starvation, their capture by the Maroons and then the threat of being all executed. They could have died so many times in such a short time, and yet they were still here. They were survivors. One way or another, they would survive this too.

They were now all going to the ship—meaning him, Vane, Flint, Billy, Madi and some of her men. Flint wanted to set sails as soon as possible, and the rest of the group approved it. “ _There is no rest—hmm, or is it peace? Oh, whatever… There is no rest for the wicked,” says the Lord._ Not that John really cared about the words of the Bible; he just thought that Flint might tell them something like that if one dared to complain about his decision. He had absolutely no reason to complain, anyway, since he had had plenty of time to rest these last few days.

Thinking back about these days of observation and socialisation with their new allies, it had been quite nice. John was under the impression that he had formed a bond with Madi, which could only be beneficial to them in the future. And yes, all right, he had also suffered one or two inconveniences during his time here, but he was feeling better now, so did it matter? Not so much.

Besides, his wound currently did not hurt and had, in fact, not hurt even slightly since he had woken up on the floor of the hut—which was kind of surprising, not to say unbelievable. When was the last time he had felt in peace with his missing limb, really? He could not remember. He was not a fool; he knew it would not last eternally. Yet, for now, he was pleased anyway. He considered even asking Madi what they used to make such an efficient medicine, just so he could suggest Dr Howell to use it too. But his pride kept him from doing so, whispering to him that it would only make him look weaker…

They were walking through the camp, Flint, Vane and Billy leading the way, John behind them with Madi at his side, while Madi’s men were bringing up the rear. John tried hard to keep the pace despite the fact that he was limping. He made it look as if it was entirely due to his bad leg when actually his arse was still sore from his previous activities with the captain. Sitting throughout the meeting had been so fucking uncomfortable, and now he had to walk with this unpleasant burn in his insides occurring at each step. Honestly, he did not know what was worse.

It was weird for him to think back to what had happened in the hut earlier, what he had thought was just a dream. It had been a blur when he had woken up, such as the figment of his feverish mind, a simple fantasy to forget. But it had not gone away; as time passed, it only became clearer and clearer. The touches, the feelings, even the words… the entirety of this insane situation. He did not know what to do with that. More he remembered, more he was confused. It was so hard to put into words what he had felt then, with this thick fog clouding his mind and this burning feeling in his gut guiding all his actions. It was even harder to comprehend how it had ended, how all of this had just vanished right when Flint had come into him, as if it was all he had needed. _Fuck, how embarrassing…_

The truth was that John was certainly not one to lose control so easily, even under the influence of a fever. In fact, he was even more careful in this kind of state—he had to, especially with the people he mixed with nowadays. A misplaced word, a story a bit too personal, and his world might turn upside down. He might lose the respect of his men, or worse. He could not allow this. So he had to keep focus and not to let the fever win over him, at any time. _How come I’ve not been able to fight then? How come I’ve been totally powerless?_ It was just as when Dr Howell had pushed him to take opium this one time…

Opium, the wonder drug that everyone used these days to relieve tension and pain. It was worse than a proof of weakness to John; it was more of a poison. He had witnessed its effects on people, the damages it could do to the mind. He had seen the addiction, the lack of control, the lack of instinct of any sort… He had made a promise to himself as a boy; he had vowed never to resort to this sort of medicine. It was about survival. Yet, after his leg had been removed so brutally, when the pain had been too much to take, he had heard the tempting voice of the doctor between two trips to hell. He had felt the tip of the pipe brush his lips. He had opened his mouth, had smoked and filled his lungs with promises of wellness. The next days had been the most frightful days of his life… He was barely there most of the time, as though he stood behind a veil. He could hear his own voice forming words he had never wanted to say aloud. He felt like a stranger in his own body.

After that, he had refused to take it ever again, in whatever form, even if it meant he had to suffer every so often. It happened that fear was stronger than pain. Fear of being vulnerable, fear of being unable to defend himself against the others… or himself.

What happened today, though… could it have been caused by a drug, as Flint had suggested? Surely it had felt the same… John had been nothing more than a puppet to a shapeless master… _But then, how did it happen?_ Indeed, how? How had this fucking drug got into him? He had not come near a pipe, so he must have ingested it in another way. It could have been something in the food or the water. Something likely to have been put there by _someone_ —by one of the Maroons…

_“I brought you some food.”_

No, no, it did not make any sense! Madi would never do such a thing to him. She had proven to have respect for him. She understood how he felt; she knew of the burden he carried on his shoulders. She would not put him in this kind of state, even less without his consent. _Flint must be mistaken about the drug._ ‘But what if he’s not?’ _If so, it had to be an accident. Think about this. Why would they do that to one of their new found allies? If the Queen learned of that, she would not let this go unpunished._ ‘Maybe she wanted that. Maybe she didn’t trust you enough to allow you to walk freely around her camp.’

John shook his head. It was ridiculous. He could not afford to doubt the Maroons now. He had to let it go. _Think of this as a joke. You’re fine now, it doesn’t matter how it happened._

“Is everything all right?”

Madi’s concerned tone drew him out of his thoughts. He turned his head to her and blinked stupidly for a moment, wondering what kind of expression he wore. ‘Don’t let her see through you.’ Thoughts of suspicion tried to fill his mind once again, and he forced himself to sweep them away. _Stop it, she’s not like that._ Madi furrowed her brow a bit more, keeping her eyes on him, and John realised then that he had not given her an answer yet.

Quickly, he replied with a slight nod. “Sorry, I was in deep thought.”

“I did notice,” she said, her eyes staring into his, as though she was trying to read his soul. “You seemed concerned about something.”

“Did I? I already forgot what it was all about.”

It was a lie—of course it was a lie, and a bad one with it. He perfectly knew he was not fooling her. He could see that in her eyes. Yet, she did not press the matter further, and for that he was grateful.

John looked around to make out their position when he caught sight of the coconut tree from yesterday, way further behind them. Watching it from there, with only the top visible, he thought he would not have paid any attention to it if he had not seen it up close before. He was actually still curious about this particular coconut tree. He had so many questions unanswered. Why had the Maroons decided to keep it, when cutting it down would have given them more space? Why did they protect it behind a fence? What made it so special to them?

He looked at Madi again. Would she be willing to satisfy his curiosity? Well, at least, surely she would be happy to see him interested by something in her camp—even though the something in question was just a coconut tree.

There was no more time for hesitation. The young woman had caught his gaze and seemed to wait for his question now.

“This coconut tree over there,” he started then, pausing to give its location with a move of the head, “the big one that you keep behind a fence, what does it mean to you?”

Madi turned her head in the direction he had indicated. John waited with some kind of anxiety, wondering now if maybe he should have just shut up. _What if it’s nothing special?_ ‘She’ll probably laugh at you.’ _I’d laugh at me too._ She looked at him again and he smiled, determined to keep his mask of self-confidence on. She smiled back at him—a warm smile, so true compared to his.

“That is our guardian,” she said with fondness in her voice, “a gift of Yemoja for this island, for the Children of Hers who are to live in this place.”

_Oh. I suppose it means no laughing then._

John could not help but feel suddenly very proud of himself. So he had been right about his first impression of the coconut tree, thinking of it as a sacred tree or something close to that. _A guardian, huh?_ Well, he was smart enough not to debate about the kind of protection a tree could really offer. He might not be a believer, but he still respected others’ beliefs—especially when foresaid others were to be crucial allies in the coming war.

“Yemoja, you said?” he inquired instead. He was always keen on learning new things, after all.

Madi nodded. “The Mother of All, the Goddess of the Oceans and Rivers. Among our people, it is believed that She can be found in all the waters of the world.”

All right, so Yemoja was a water spirit—the most important of all, at that. John’s first thought was that there must be competition for the title. His second thought was that it did not really matter to him. What did matter to him was to maintain this conversation and finally get the answers he wanted.

“Like the river flowing around your camp? The lake too?”

“Yes. The river, the lake, the sea. Even the storm that incidentally brought you here. It might have been Her plan for us to meet and thus combine our forces.”

Did Madi truly believe it or was she just trying to sell him a good story? Whatever it might be, John could not join this way to see things. He had been there when Flint had suggested for them to brave the storm. It had been Flint’s decision in the end, and not the decision of a spirit of any sort. As for the success of this alliance, would it have been possible without Flint’s well-chosen words? No, of course not. That was why, in John’s opinion, Flint was the real maker of this particular story.

He kept it to himself anyway, only smiling to what Madi said, upon which he followed up with a new question: “But then, if Yemoja lives in water, how is that coconut tree connected to her?”

 “All of nature is connected to her, Mr Silver,” the young woman replied kindly. “Plants, animals, humans. Don’t we all need water to live?”

Hmm, it made sense. Yet, it did not explain why the Maroons had chosen this tree and not another to be their guardian. How was it different from any other tree on this island, exactly? Was it just because of its height? John was going to ask her, but he noticed that they were finally reaching the edge of the camp.

A group of eight Maroons was standing in front of the longboats. When their own group arrived, two of the men sat in the nearest longboat and grabbed the oars, the six others doing the same in a second, a third and a fourth longboat. Flint jumped in the first one, quickly followed by Vane. Billy turned his head to John, as if he wanted something from him. John raised an eyebrow, and then Billy’s eyes fell on his iron leg. _Ah…_ Realising that the first mate was waiting for him to tell if he needed help to climb inside, John glared at him. _Don’t fucking do that, Billy… You know damn well I don’t like it…_ He was about to hand him his bag anyway, to have better freedom of movement, except he actually did not have it with him. _Shit._

He stopped, tucked nervously a lock of his hair behind his ear as he cleared his throat. “I may have forgotten to take my things…”

Flint looked at him with cold eyes, but said nothing. Vane, however, sneered without any discretion. _It’s just fucking perfect…_ He would have been better off shutting his mouth… Did he really need the spare clothes, the knife and the dressings the crew had prepared for him before their departure a few days ago? Well, technically, yes. He had only another pair of trousers, and the one he was currently wearing was now kind of sticky…

“I’ll go get them,” offered Billy, looking at John and then at Flint. “I’ll catch up with you on the way.” John saw the captain give a little nod of approval, and so Billy turned and headed back to the camp.

Madi looked intently at one of her men, one of those who did not carry provisions. The man left immediately to follow the first mate, probably to show him the hut where John had lived in these past few days. It would also keep Billy from walking into one of the traps hidden in the forest while trying to rejoin them… So much trouble just for a fucking bag…

John climbed in the second longboat with Madi and a Maroon he had identified as her personal guard when he was still a prisoner. The rest of the Maroons went to the third and fourth longboats. As he sat down, John clenched his teeth to hold back a hiss, suffering from both the stabbing pain in his arse and the stinging of his cock rubbing slightly against his trousers.

The longboats departed one after another, silence in the air except for the sound of the oars lashing the water and mosquitoes harassing them. To be honest, John could not wait to get on the other side of the lake. The ache in his backside was only increasing in this position, even more because of the swaying of the boat.

With little to distract him, John cast a glance at his left, at the first longboat—that sailed pretty much at the same pace as theirs. He could not help but look at Flint, thinking once again about what had happened between them, wondering if it did affect their partnership or if he was the only one worrying about that. Maybe they were all right. Maybe there was just nothing to worry about in the end. Maybe the captain had simply put it behind him, just as John had wished. But then their eyes met. Their eyes met, and John’s heart stopped for a second— _Oh fuck he’s looking over here what should I do what should I_ —until Flint turned his head abruptly and looked away. John blinked, taken aback by Flint’s attitude. _Oh… Well… that was awkward…_

His eyes remained on the captain, his mind full of questions. Why would Flint look away? Was he embarrassed of John? What did Flint see now, when he looked at John? _Am I still your partner in your eyes? What are you thinking, Captain? Damn it! You were only pretending to be unconcerned about the whole thing before, weren’t you?_

John should not be surprised. It would not be the first time that Flint hid behind a mask of indifference. He was a very secretive man, after all. John might have discovered many things about him since the day he joined the crew, he might have slowly made his way into his head, into the dark thoughts reigning there, but he knew there were still parts out of his reach. Things hidden behind the wall Flint had built between the world and him. Things that John could not understand just by watching. He would need Flint to be open with him about that, to speak frankly to him, as he had done so in the cage. Now John was afraid that this incident between them would become one of those things he had no access to. He was afraid that Flint would not talk about his feelings, that he would prefer to ignore John and the whole matter instead of confronting it. He was afraid that a single moment of chaos had destroyed what had taken him so long to gain.

_Really, Captain, is this what you want? Come on, what are you thinking? Tell me!_

He sighed. Flint’s eyes did not meet his again.

Finally, the longboats reached the other side of the lake. One of the Maroons took the lead, Vane just behind him. John watched the hill dreadfully. He might feel a bit better at the moment, but climbing such a height would be still difficult with his iron leg—not to mention his sore arse. If he wanted to be able to follow the group at a reasonable distance, he would have to put more weight on the wound than he should. It was not the most pleasant of the ideas…

To his surprise, though, Flint was waiting for him at the bottom of the hill—either that or he was contemplating the landscape, given that he was just standing here, not moving. It made John confused, hesitant about using Flint’s shoulder for support. He had absolutely no idea where they were standing. One moment, the captain distanced himself from him, the next one he offered to help him without a word or a look. What did it mean?

Yet, when Flint finally turned his head to him, raising an eyebrow and looking tired of waiting, John felt he had no choice but to accept the offer: he put a hand on Flint’s right shoulder. The captain tensed slightly at the touch—probably because of the pressure applied too close to his recent wound—but he began to walk as if it was nothing, and so John followed. They climbed the hill together without exchanging a word.

John tried to ignore all those thoughts swirling in his mind, questions without answers, more and more worries; he tried to ignore the tight knot forming in his stomach, but it only grew with the silence. So, as soon as they reached the top of the hill, he let go of Flint’s shoulder and took a step forward, then another, then another. He refused to look weak in Flint’s eyes for one more second. He would walk on his own from here; his leg could take it.

The group dived into the forest then. Mosquitoes were replaced with insects equally noisy and irritating. One of them was constantly flying around John, passing close to his ear again and again, making him shake his head every fucking time to get rid of it… John thought he heard Flint snort at some point, but it could have been his imagination. How could he be sure of anything when he had this annoying sound—bzz bzz—in his ears? Fuck, this damn bug must be doing it on purpose!

Billy and the Maroon escorting him finally caught up with them. John was too busy watching where he was going to ask for his bag. He did not want to get it back now, anyway. He was in pain. Not because of his bad leg, no. Strangely enough, the strain of walking with the boot was not as tough as usual. The leather bonds were still tight, digging into the skin of his thigh, but he had no cramp and no nerve pain—even though this walk was harder and longer than the one he had taken yesterday. No, the pain came from his pelvis, more precisely his fucking arse. He had thought he would get used to it. He had not imagined it could bother him so much… Right now, he felt like an old man—would it be how he would feel every day in ten, maybe twenty years? He hoped not… Each step reminded him how sore he was, and he started to feel angry with Flint for being responsible for this. Except that Flint was not responsible for this—at least not completely. Was it not John, after all, who had begged him for more and more, who had rejected Flint’s carefulness and asked instead for deep and hard thrusts? But John could not really be angry with himself, could he?

After a while, they reached the beach—at last. It was also the most difficult part for John. He struggled to keep his balance, the end of his peg leg sinking too deeply into the sand half the time, forcing him to pull it out from there to keep moving. It was both tiring and frustrating, yet John refrained from expressing how he felt. He did not want pity—from anyone. He could handle it. Soon, he would be aboard the _Walrus_ , and then he would find a quiet corner to rest a little bit. Everything would be all right.

He stopped watching his step, looked right at the ship with determination. From here, he could see the longboats being launched. Yes. Everything would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver complains a lot, but only in his head. ^^


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon reflection, I made a choice and decided to cut the original chapter in two different ones for some personal reason. So this chapter and the next one will be a bit shorter, sorry about that. Let's just say that's for the best, all right? :)

John was greeted cheerfully by the members of the crew. They looked and sounded very happy to have their quartermaster back on the ship, which inflated his ego and lifted his spirits up. He nodded at them, forced a smile while he subtly leaned with his back against the railing. He could not show them his pain. He could not show them any weakness. He was back, and they needed him at his best—especially given the place they were soon going to head for.

He listened to some of the men tell him of the recent events, mostly of the epic fight between Flint and Blackbeard, of that moment when they had all thought Flint was going to be killed and Vane had then suddenly stepped in. Hearing from their mouths the full story, John realised it had been a close call. If Vane had had any hesitation at this point, Flint would be dead. Just like that. _Flint must have known… He must have taken a calculated risk…_ _said something to Vane before the fight, maybe?_ It would be just like Flint, to plant a seed into one’s mind only to make them serve his interests. John was well placed to know that…

The crewmen finally scattered, busying themselves on deck or up in the rigging, getting ready to set sail. Flint was currently on the quarterdeck, standing straight as a military man, watching them all with some kind of greatness. _Should I be by your side? Or do you prefer to look down at me?_

John clenched his teeth and looked somewhere else—anywhere else.

He saw Billy climb aboard, turn swiftly and extend his hand, helping Madi aboard—quite the gentleman, as always. Then Madi began to look around. Her back straight, her head up, she appeared as strong as ever, even though she was out of her element. A few steps, and she was already catching the attention of several members of the crew— _Don’t stare at her like that, you idiots_! It was uncommon to have a woman aboard, and John was not surprised that Madi gave rise to a spark of interest in his men, but he did not like it nonetheless. She was the Queen’s daughter, not a whore for them to fuck.

John wanted to go to her, to impose limits by his sole presence near her, but he was stopped before he could even decide to make a move: Madi looked up to the captain, nodded slightly to him, and he nodded back.

He fucking nodded back.

There was recognition from Flint. Recognition of the role Madi held on his ship. It sufficed to make all the men look away and get back to work.

A cold feeling took over John. He felt upset, and he did not even exactly know why, which only made him feel more upset. He closed his eyes for a second, forced himself to swallow back his frustration. It was all because of the pain. It was getting on his nerves, messing with his head. He should take advantage of the fact that no one was paying him any attention to vanish below deck and take a nap, get a bit better, maybe also change clothes, add his coat, jewels and weapons to his outfit—make himself look important. He really should do that… and yet he did not.

He left his spot against the railing of the ship, went to the quarterdeck, walking with as much confidence as he could muster, and then took his rightful place beside Flint. He said nothing, just stood there and looked at the men working, with both his hands resting on the guard rail at the front of the quarterdeck. It did not matter what Flint thought. _I’m your quartermaster. This is where I should be._

Needless to say that he regretted fast his decision. Standing like that might be good for his leg, but not at all for his back. The physical effort of walking from the camp to the _Walrus_ had been too much for him, and now the pain made him feel as if he were broken in half. He could barely keep his mask on. He thought more and more of his hammock in the crew’s quarters, on which he could be lying if he was not so fucking stubborn.

Suddenly, Flint put his hands on the guard rail too, moving a little closer to John while doing so. John turned his head to him, prepared to read the captain’s mood in his eyes, but Flint was actually not looking at him. He was still looking down at the main deck, right before him, even as he stated: “You are in pain.”

John narrowed his eyes and tightened his hands on the guard rail. Of course Flint would notice that…

“My leg is fine, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he replied coldly.

He was not in a good mood at the moment, and he knew now that it was useless to pretend otherwise in front of Flint. Flint would see it all through his mask anyway…

“You know what I’m talking about.”

John felt his entire body stiffen in a split second. Flint’s voice was impassive, as if he was having the most common conversation. But this conversation was anything but common. They could not have it here, on the quarterdeck, near any eavesdropper. _You must be kidding me!_

But then the captain added, “Come.” His tone had not changed, yet the command sounded strong—like one you could not just refuse.

With this, Flint left the guard rail and headed for his cabin.

John felt relieved and stupid at the same time. _What did I think?_ Of course Flint would not talk about _their little incident_ just anywhere…

He looked at the open door. ‘You go in there, you have no way out.’ _I know…_ Frankly, this conversation could go one way or another. John did not like to face uncertainty. With any other person, he knew he would likely be able to get the outcome he wanted. With Flint, it would be more complicated. With Flint, _everything_ was _always_ more complicated…

Well, it was not as if he had a choice.

John walked slowly to the cabin and entered. The door closed behind him then, and he heard the lock being slid into place. _No way out._ He took a long breath through his nose and passed beside the dinner table to walk straight to the desk, putting as much distance as possible between Flint and him, giving himself a false sense of security.

Once he was before the large desk, John put both his hands on its edge for support, wincing at the pain in his pelvis. _Come on, get a grip!_ He swallowed and focused on anything on the desk, from the map to the cover of a worn book to the half-used candle, anything to distract his mind from the pain… to try and regain control… to be strong again. A few seconds passed before he finally felt good enough to turn and face Flint—who was still standing in front of the door. _You don’t plan on staying here for long, do you?_

“So? What’s it about?” John asked with a hint of irritation in his voice.

He knew he should not take this path, he should not address the captain with anything else than respect, but he did not feel very patient right now. Given the way the conversation had started outside, he suspected he was not going to like the rest of it.

For a moment, only silence reigned in the room. Flint was just observing him while stroking his goatee thoughtfully. But then, at last, he said something.

“You’re not accustomed to that, are you?”

“To what exactly?” asked John, his lips forming a fake smile. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Of course he knew very well what Flint did mean by “that”. He just wanted Flint to say it aloud. _We won’t get anywhere if you cannot even name it._

The captain gave out a sigh, looked at John with a bit of annoyance. But John did not miss the slight movement of his hands, did not miss the long fingers fiddling with the rings. A nervous habit. _What, am I making you uncomfortable now? Come on, it’s not so hard, is it? Say it._

“I understand you are upset—”

John snorted with contempt. What did Flint think he understood, uh? Upset? It was not even close to what John was feeling. Oh, he could see what Flint was trying to do. _Stop avoiding the fucking issue!_

Something ugly was twisting his guts. He wanted to believe that he did not seek conflict here, but it would be just a lie. Flint’s attitude, his so called indifference brought back old memories—bad memories. This, added to the persistent pain, made him feel so angry that he had little self-control.

“As I said, I understand,” repeated Flint, scowling at him, “but you may want to watch your tone.”

“Or what?” retorted John. _Will you keep me quiet, the way you did with Mr Gates?_

Flint’s face became even harder. He turned his head to the door, then to John again, before finally coming up to him. Fast. Too fast. In a blink, he stood right in front of John, towering over him by a few inches. Lips tightened in a thin line, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, eyes glowing with darkness, Flint looked quite intimidating, and so John instinctively moved back against the desk, even though pushing his backside more against the hard wood did nothing to ease the pain.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” the captain said coldly, staring into his eyes with a dangerous intensity.

John’s heartbeats were ringing into his ears. Each second that passed, he felt it grow. Fear—fear for his life. ‘Look away.’ _No, no, I have to face it. I have to face him. Or else he wins!_ ‘What’s more important right now? Your life or your dignity?’ _He won’t do that. I know he won’t. He would lose everything._ Fear did not seem to agree. ‘Just. Look. Away.’

John gulped and forced himself to hold Flint’s stare. A small act of defiance.

Flint’s hands came on the desk then, and John felt even more trapped. _No way out_ , he reminded himself anxiously.

“You’re tired and in pain, and it clouds your judgement,” Flint went on, the storm in his eyes stronger and stronger, even as his voice remained so fucking impassive. “Believe me, you won’t get any satisfaction of lashing out at me now.”

Deep down within himself, John must know that Flint was right, because he could not find anything to retort. He opened his mouth to say something—anything, really—but words were stuck in his throat. So he closed his mouth, frowning, clenching his teeth, refraining from biting his lower lip in frustration. Then, swallowing, he turned his head to the side with a heavy feeling of defeat in his chest. _What the fuck am I doing…?_

Silence again. John focused on the gun tied to the wall by thick ropes, the one close to Flint’s berth; he refused to look at the captain and see any kind of judgement in his eyes. What had become of the progress between them? Why did John feel as small now as during those past weeks of starvation?

“The pain will recede eventually. In the meantime, you should rest,” said Flint matter-of-factly.

John did not answer. He kept his jaw clenched, eyes firmly set on the gun, his bitten nails sinking into the wood of the desk.

“Take my berth,” Flint added, and he finally gave John some space by moving away. “No one will disturb you here.”

Flint’s steps were heading to the door now. Not hurried—not the sound of someone running away from a conversation. No, just a normal pace, as if whatever they had started here was over.

There was the distinct sound of the lock being unbolted.

“I’ll wake you up at the next bell.”

Then the door opened and closed, and John was left all alone in the room.

He let out a breath he did not know he was holding and almost fell as his muscles suddenly loosened, all the tension leaving his body. A moment passed, during which he just stared at the door, expecting for Flint to return and change his mind. When it was certain that he would not do so, John started to laugh. He laughed madly, bitterly, and his heart ached and ached more by the minute. There had been no conversation here. Flint had just dominated him, squashed his fury as if it was nothing, and in the end John had none of the answers he had wanted. The only thing he had gained from this was the cruel feeling of being worthless…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?


	8. Chapter 8

For a brief moment, John thought of going against Flint’s will; he thought of leaving the cabin. But then he glanced at the slightly swinging berth held by strong ropes, at the blanket and cushion that both seemed so soft—it would be way more comfortable than his hammock. He took a step to it, temptation growing harder to resist in his mind. Another step, and a new shot of pain running through his pelvis ended up convincing him that it was for the best.

John closed the distance with the berth, winced in pain as he sat on it. Under his palms, he could feel the fabric of the blanket, even softer than he had thought. _Fuck, Flint, what a lucky bastard!_

Still sitting, he looked at his bad leg, hesitating to keep the boot on. Surely it would be better for the wound if he removed it—less pressure, more air. As he thought about it, he moved his left hand and instinctively massaged his thigh. He could feel through his trousers the straps of leather sinking into his skin, causing this slight irritation that made him want to scratch. He did not like it—never had. He wanted to remove the fucking boot and be comfortable. Yet, upon reflection, John chose not to do it. More than being comfortable, he wanted to be ready if he was needed out there—or even just if someone came uninvited in the cabin.

Carefully then, he lay down on the berth. He put his head on the wool cushion, sighed in contentment. The berth was steady, barely moving now that it supported John. From there, John looked one last time at the closed door. ‘What do you expect?’ mocked his own voice in his mind, only making his heart heavier. What, indeed? He wished he had handled things differently earlier; he wished he had not let his anger override his patience. _But it’s too late anyway, isn’t it?_ He blinked once, twice, and kept his eyes shut at last, feeling sleep calling to him.

He had a dream.

A dream of youth, of first experiences. _Temptation._

“Let me warm you up…”

A dream of skin against skin, pleasant touches and teasing voice. _Seduction._

“So beautiful… Look at you. You’re so responsive.”

A dream of pain, unease and fear. _Hesitation._

“Shh, relax. Let it go. I promise it will get good soon.”

A dream of surrender, of a newfound pleasure. _Perdition._

“See? What did I tell you?”

A dream of lies, broken trust and crushed pride. _Deception._

“Do not mind him, my dear. He is just an orphan boy. I had the misfortune to give him a penny once, and now he keeps asking for more.”

John woke up with a start as something suddenly grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Heart pounding in panic, eyes opened wide, he only relaxed when he saw Flint’s face above him, remembering where he was. He was surprised not to have woken up at the sound of the door opening. He was usually a light sleeper—as a common thief and liar, he had to be if he wanted to live another day.

The captain released his hold on John’s shoulder, turned away from him and went to the dinner table. Meanwhile, John sat up and tried to blink away the unpleasant feelings brought by the dream he had just had. Memories of the past—vivid memories he had no desire to think of, especially now.

“Our course is set,” Flint said while pouring some liquid in a metallic mug. “For now, the winds are on our side.”

He put the jug back on the table and came back in front of the berth with the mug in his hand. He handed it to John, asking, “Are you feeling better?”

John grasped the mug in both hands, touching just lightly Flint’s fingers while doing so. His eyes fell on these long and calloused fingers as he could not help but think of what they had done to him, when he had been begging for them, for their warmth, for their touch, for their taste. He tightened his grip on the mug and chased away these unneeded memories by focusing on Flint’s question instead. He looked up at Flint and nodded to him. His arse still did hurt, but the pain was less now than prior to his nap. Maybe that was why he felt less angry too—more patient.

“Good,” concluded simply Flint, then turning and going to his desk.

John did not know what to say to that. _Good? Is that it?_ He looked down at the mug and decided to take a sip of its contents—water. Satisfied, he drank the rest all at once to appease his thirst. But it did not appease the nasty feeling engulfing his heart: this growing anxiety that made him so unsure…

He sat on the side of the berth, tapping nervously on the mug with his fingers, and looked towards the desk. Flint was standing up between his chair and his desk, observing the large map spread before him, tracing something with his index. _Is there nothing else you want to ask, Captain? Are you not concerned about where we stand? Because I am. I need to know…_

“Are we all right?” The words came out just as they crossed his mind.

Flint looked up at him in confusion. “Beg pardon?”

John could step back, reply that it was nothing. He had not planned to say it aloud, after all. Yet, now that he had asked the question, he wanted a chance to get an answer.

“You and I,” he said, his eyes firmly set on Flint, “are we all right?”

The captain furrowed a brow. “Should I not be the one to ask that question? As I recall, _you_ have been looking for a fight, not _me_.”

_Well, it’s true, but…_

“Is cold indifference any better?” John retorted, hurt, remnants of his very recent dream poking at him.

In response, Flint frowned even more. “That’s what’s bothering you then?” he asked, seeming genuinely surprised. He paused for a few seconds, as if thinking, and then went on, “I don’t feel I treated you any differently, though.”

It came like a shock, Flint’s words.

John blinked once, twice— _what does that mean what does that mean what the fuck does that mean?_ He was trying to remember everything Flint had done and said from the moment he had woken up on the floor of the hut in his company. He had thought he had lost Flint’s respect… he had thought Flint was ashamed of him. But in the end, if he really thought about it objectively, had Flint showed him contempt? No. No, Flint might have been cold and harsh, he might have been somewhat distant, but… but… he had also been nice to John. Maybe Flint’s coldness had in fact more to do with annoyance than disdain. Annoyance to the awkward situation they had experienced, then annoyance to John’s open hostility. _So what? I’d have got everything wrong? I’d have created the whole problem between us?_

Yet, there was still something nagging at John. During the crossing of the lake, when their eyes had met, why had Flint looked away? And why had Flint been nervous a bit earlier? _It has to mean something…_ ‘You’re only looking for a reason to be right.’ _I’m looking for the truth!_ ‘The truth is, you’d have looked away if Flint had not done so. Admit it. You were embarrassed to have been caught in the act. What if he was too?’ Maybe. Maybe he was looking for problems that did not exist… ‘It doesn’t have to be the same as before. It doesn’t have to happen again.’ Had he been so caught in the past, so sure to be disregarded again that he had read everything Flint did in that way? _Damn it! I don’t know…_ He was no longer sure of anything.

Flint was staring at him with narrowed eyes, and John realised he had been silent for too long.

“So…” he started, thinking fast, “am I to understand that you don’t blame me for what happened?”

“Blame you?” repeated the captain, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “Where the fuck did you get this idea? Why would I do that?”

John had no good argument to give. He had just assumed that was the way things were. People tended to do that, blame the other party when the issue was not convenient to them. Why would Flint be any different?

Flint must have guessed his thoughts, because he let out a long sigh before indicating, “I bear as much responsibility as you on this matter—if not more.” He moved from his desk to the dinner table as he continued, “You were in a state of vulnerability. It doesn’t matter that you propositioned me; it was yet abuse on my part.” _Most people wouldn’t care, y’know? Especially pirates. But I suppose you’re not the typical people, nor the typical pirate._ “In fact, until now, I thought _you_ were blaming me, and I did let you do so… because I felt I fully deserved that.”

Flint was now leaning against the end of the table, facing John, looking at him so seriously that his words could only seem sincere. It left John at a loss for words. Truly, Flint’s moral sense never ceased to amaze him. This man could destroy an entire city in revenge and feel right about it, he could lead hundreds of men to war for the sake of his ideal, but not take advantage of someone for his own needs without—

“Are you saying all this time you… felt guilty?” John asked for confirmation.

Flint nodded.

_Well, I shouldn’t be so surprised. It’s just like you, isn’t it? You never liked to do wrong—wrong according to your own moral code, of course—I tend to forget that. You have so much guilt inside you that it constitutes a whole part of your being, hidden in your own darkness, where no one can see it—no one but me._

“I did not intend to give in to my primal urges, Mr Silver,” said the captain with yet another sigh. “I did so because I saw no other way to ensure your safety.”

“My safety?” Now John was confused. _Is it not a bit strong of a term?_

“You were delirious,” Flint reminded him. “I tried to help and reason with you, but then… you just lost it. You became violent and heavily emotional; you started to ramble incoherently about dying if I didn’t stay, if I didn’t—” He stopped, looked at some point on John’s left, came back on John quickly after. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid that, by leaving, by the time I’d come back with a doctor, you’d have hurt yourself, or worse. You were too unpredictable to be left alone.”

 _Oh. So you were worried about me, about what could happen to me._ John had never thought this day would come; the day Flint would consider John important enough to truly care for his welfare instead of only caring about his capacity to manage the crew. They had recently become partners, but they were still not friends. He would not dare to think it meant Flint saw him as a friend now. Yet, maybe this was a path they were both slowly taking. ‘ _We might be friends by then_ ,’ John had said months ago while facing a difficult situation. He had not been thinking much of this. Frankly, he had had no interest in becoming friends with pirates then—it had only been a way to survive. Now, though, did he think the same? Well, no, clearly not. He cared about those people, and he had recently discovered that he also cared about Flint—enough to prevent him from sacrificing himself for the crew. So, this door about to be opened, he did not want to ignore it. He did not know if it would do him any good, being friends with someone like Flint, but he was ready to take that risk.

John’s lips broke into a smile. “Well, thank you for _ensuring my safety_ , then,” he said, both sincere and teasing.

To be honest, he did not know either what he would have done if Flint had left. He had been so desperate for him at the time. He felt he might have tried to follow him, by crawling on the floor if necessary, not bothered at all by the idea to be seen that way. He would have destroyed his reputation, all he had worked so hard to build despite his handicap, without any hesitation. How terrifying…

Flint furrowed his brow, obviously unsure of how to take John’s words. But then his face relaxed a bit, and he was about to say something when—clatter—the door opened suddenly, and someone barged in.

“Hoy, you better have some good rum in—” The man, who was none other than this lout Charles Vane, stopped dead in his tracks and looked from one to another with questioning eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Am I interrupting something?”

John saw Flint put on his cold mask again. The moment was gone, but it was all right. John was no longer confused. Now he knew exactly where they both stood, and he could not be happier.

He shook his head, finally stood up. “I was just leaving.”

He nodded to Flint, then to Vane, and walked to the door, leaving the mug he was still holding on the dinner table on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, they talked!  
> (Well, technically, it only took them a half day or so. It could have been worse. ^^)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had thought I would have finished editing the story before season 4 started, but it seems I was too optimistic. XD Anyway, I just loved this first episode, and I'm sure the rest of the season will be just as great! Come on, bring in even more angst, I'm so ready for this!!!

At some point, John could not hold back anymore: he went to the head to take a piss, even though he was dreading about that. In the process, he discovered unsurprisingly that his cock was still well irritated, which made the whole thing as unpleasant as he had expected. It did not take a doctor to tell that the pain would remain yet for a little while…

He had not taken the time to change yet; he had been too busy showing himself to make up for this nap that had lasted far longer than he had thought. Flint had told him he would wake him up at the next bell—that was supposed to be about thirty minutes to one hour later. Now John might know next to nothing about sailing, but he was not a complete idiot either. He could perfectly see from the current position of the sun that hours had passed since their departure from Maroon Island. It was now the middle of the day, and he had barely been present for his men—hopefully Billy had managed them well.

On his way back to the main deck, John stopped in the crew’s quarters to finally put on his coat and jewels—he liked the cold touch of metal between his collarbones and around his fingers; it contrasted with the hot and heavy feel of his coat on his shoulders. He planned to change his trousers too, but his bag was not with his other belongings. _Fuck, Billy, where did you put it?_ John looked under every hammock and pretty much everywhere in the room: he could not find it. So, with a sigh of frustration, he resigned himself to keep his sticky trousers on. He would ask for his bag later… Wanting to improve his appearance a bit more anyway, he took his belt, buckled it, and then tucked his sword in it. This would do for now.

John climbed the stairs to the main deck. Once outside, he looked quickly around, but did not see either Flint or Vane. He looked to Flint’s cabin then, wondering if the two captains were still in there, drinking like old friends. He had actually a hard time imagining them telling each other stories, laughing heartily. There was a time when Flint would smile and laugh on occasion, but this time seemed to be over. John had seen the change of mood after Flint had felt forced to kill his quartermaster and friend, Mr Gates. He had seen it even more after Mrs Barlow’s death. Flint had closed his heart, had hidden behind a constant mask of coldness. Vane might be one of Flint’s allies now, but he would never be able to break this façade; he would never get the same kind of closeness that Flint had shared with the two others. Of that John was certain. Vane probably did not even care about that.

The fact was that Flint and Vane were both too different. Opposites. Flint was an educated man, following his own rules, always concerned about being seen as the villain of the story, while Vane was a free spirit, lawless and remorseless, violent, unconcerned about other people’s opinion. They simply had not the same view of life. How could Vane understand Flint, then? _That’s the thing, huh? He doesn’t, not really. They just happen to have common interests._

_…What about me?_

Until a few months ago, John lived with no attachment, no loyalty. Everything and everyone were just a means to an end. Obviously, he had changed since then. He had tried not to see it… he had lied to himself as he had lied to everyone else. He was not supposed to care… but he did. He did care, and he had learned it the hard way…

He put a hand on his thigh mindlessly. Before, he would have fled responsibilities, and now he was the quartermaster of the most feared crew of the New World. He had not been ready for it, had been terrified by it, and yet he had stayed. Because those men were all he had now. _“Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?”_ Flint’s words had been true when John had still both legs. These words had haunted him, day after day, after he had woken up to his loss.

So yes, he had changed his way of living; he had become what the crew expected of him. What Flint expected of him. And, in the end, was it not Flint who had changed him more? Flint… and his darkness. John could feel it caress his mind and call to him. The closer he got to Flint, the more his old self was fading away. He was not afraid, though—not anymore. He had still got a step closer today, and he could not wait for the next. _I want to know him… truly know him._

He turned his eyes away from the cabin, looked around absent-mindedly when he caught sight of Madi on the forecastle. She was leaning with both hands on the bulwark, her eyes on the horizon. What was she thinking of, while looking in the distance? Were her thoughts turned on her island, on her dying father and the people that counted on her, or were they turned on Nassau, on this distant place where she had not been for such a long time?

John liked to think he attached no importance to his own past—except what he could twist and use to make a good story. He also liked to think he did not dwell on it, like most people did—although recent events seemed to prove him wrong.

He was nothing special as a kid, just a homeless boy who stole to live, using his brain to get by, sometimes alone, sometimes as part of a group. He had lost more than one familiar face to jail, or even worse… to the noose. How did he feel every single time it happened? Scared, of course, but glad too. Glad not to be in their place. None of them were his friends; he had no friend. Because in this world of theirs, if you did not think of yourself first, you were as good as dead. It was a hard and cruel life, after all. Yet, it was still better than the few years he had been forced to spend in this cold prison of an orphanage… At least, in the cold streets of London, he was free.

Ladies tended to like him, he noticed while growing up. They were easy targets on which he could use his charms to get what he needed—a few pieces, a free meal, even a night in a warm bed and fresh clothes on lucky days. It was impressive what a smile and a well-played role—son, brother, friend, lover—could get you.

It was during a masquerade ball—in which he had slipped to lighten some purses—that he had first met him: the charming, seductive nobleman. He had felt his eyes on him all evening, and it had been soon obvious that the man was not suspicious but had simply taken an interest in him. John had been curious, had wondered about this uncharted territory—this forbidden fruit. It had flattered his vanity, to find out he was desired also by men. Thus he had played this game of seduction, had seized this opportunity. That night in a dark alcove, among kisses and light touches, he had got a promise for more as well as an invitation to another party. It had been his life for a while, going to those parties, stealing what he needed while flirting secretly with a beautiful man. What he had not planned was to get attached, and ultimately he had been the one to be used… the one with both his trust and ego hurt.

He had understood then: his only true possession was his life. And what kind of life was it? He wanted a better life, a comfortable life. A life where he would not have to worry about being hungry or being cold.

He had made a choice. He had left the streets and travelled, first on land, then also by sea, taking any job offer he heard of, always looking for new opportunities. Well, at least that was until one of said opportunities had pushed him into a life of piracy and cost him his leg—his freedom. Now, he was stuck on this ship, with this crew and their lunatic captain. Not exactly the future he had imagined for himself. But he supposed he could have been way more unlucky. These men, they liked him, they trusted him, they listened to him—even Flint, now. He had made a place for himself here, on the _Walrus_. A powerful position—one he would not have anywhere else, either with or without his leg. In fact, apart from the dull pain he felt in his left side most of the time, he might be happy with this life.

John left his thoughts behind and began to approach Madi, but then he was stopped by her personal guard— _what’s his name again? Komi? Kosi, maybe?_ The man stood silent before him, a hard look on his face. But John did not lower his eyes; he stayed strong and waited patiently.

“Let him through,” Madi said, her voice calm, but authoritative. She had turned to them, probably having caught the movement of her guard before.

The man finally moved aside and went a bit further on the forecastle. John nodded to Madi and went beside her, putting his hands on the bulwark. Yet, still feeling the eyes of the guard on them, he could not help but glance at him, a bit bothered.

“Forgive Kofi,” Madi told John then, catching his attention again, “he is still wary of you—of your people.”

 _Oh, so it’s Kofi._ He would try to keep the name in mind, this time.

John offered her a smile. “I understand. It is his role to protect you inside and outside your camp. I can’t exactly blame him for making sure that your authority is respected on that ship.”

The young woman smiled back before turning to the sea again. John leaned a bit more on the bulwark and looked distractedly at the waves provoked by the _Walrus_ ’s forceful passing.

“We never finished our conversation,” he said when it became clear that Madi would not speak first.

She fixed her dark eyes on him, raising an eyebrow. “Were you not just humouring me this morning, Mr Silver?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I am genuinely curious about your gods?” he asked in response, using his most charming smile.

“Would you be offended if I said _yes_?”

John could not hold back a laugh, enjoying her repartee. He liked that she was so naturally open with him. Also, the way she stood and spoke both suggested that she was more relaxed than before. It meant she felt comfortable enough with him to allow herself to drop her guard, even aboard this ship full of boorish men.

“No, not at all,” he answered, and paused for a second before adding, “but I’m still genuinely curious.”

She was not the only one to relax, he suddenly realised. He was too. It was strange, but in her presence he felt more like his old self. Honestly, when was the last time he had smiled like that, laughed like that? This woman was like a ray of sunshine piercing through the darkness he had got used to live into these last months. It felt good—really good.

He could see a gleam of amusement in Madi’s eyes as she asked, “How can I satisfy your curiosity, then?”

John thought of it quickly, remembering the few answers she had already given him last time.

“You said the coconut tree is your guardian,” he reminded her. “How so? Why is it so special to your people?”

He did not know why he wanted to know that much. He did not even believe in a higher power or anything like this. Hell, Heaven, fate, afterlife, gods, spirits, monsters, they were all ideas created by man for reassurance. To give meaning to life and the inexplicable. Ridiculous lies, the proof being that most of those ideas changed from an era to another. John did not need it. He believed in concrete facts: reality. Yet, he wanted to understand what had convinced those people that something as common as a tree could be a gift of one of their so-called gods.

Madi seemed hesitant now, as if the answer to his question was too big a secret to be shared with just anybody. It made John feel even more curious, but he did not push her—it would likely have the opposite effect. He simply waited, watching her with a casual look, hoping it would put her at ease. And then, finally, she spoke.

“I trust you not to seek to exploit this information.” There was such seriousness in her eyes that John felt obliged to give her a nod in agreement. For some reason, Madi’s trust had great value to him, and he did not want to risk disappointing her. “This coconut tree has been given the power of healing and fertility through its fruits. We make use of their juice in our medicine.”

John frowned, perplexed. “Their juice? But to do what?” _Isn’t coconut oil made with the flesh? I thought the juice was only meant to be a drink…_

“Elixirs, and various concoctions, such as the one we’ve put on your wound.”

 _Wait, what? What did she say?_ John felt a bit anxious suddenly. He had never heard of coconut juice being ever used that way. Was it not a bit risky? You could not just decide randomly to apply anything on a wound. What if he had had a bad reaction to that?

“There is no need to worry, Mr Silver,” the young woman said to him with a soft, reassuring voice. “I can assure you that our concoctions are perfectly safe. We have been using them over the past decade and a half.” She took a short pause, tilted her head just a bit. “Does your leg not feel better?”

Her words set his mind at rest. John supposed it was indeed safe if the Maroons had only had good results with their own remedies for so many years. Besides, Madi was right: what they had put on him had been efficient. The swelling around his wound had diminished quirkier than ever, and he still did not feel any pain in his leg, even now—just this slight discomfort caused by the leather bonds of the boot rubbing his skin.

“It does,” he admitted. He doubted it had anything to do with their _special ingredient_ , though.

Now that he felt completely relaxed again, John let himself be guided once more by his curiosity. “So… how does it work? Do you just stock this particular coconut juice in jars and then pour it as it is in most of your preparations?”

Madi seemed to think of the question for a few seconds. “I never made one of these preparations myself, but our healer is very precise with both the age and the quantity. We wait for the coconuts to be fully ripe before we collect them. There is less juice, but it is better this way. Then, only a few drops are used, a spoonful at most; it is all we need.”

Only a few drops? Why? How did they expect it to have any effect at all?

“Why is it better to wait for the coconuts to be fully ripe?” John asked, more and more intrigued. “Is the juice as any other when taken from immature coconuts?”

“Oh no, it is quite the opposite. The juice from immature coconuts is very strong, Mr Silver. Too strong to be of any use to us.”

_Too strong? But… I’ve emptied one of those immature coconuts all by myself!_

John did not understand. It had not felt so strong to him. Sweet, refreshing, what you would expect from any fruit juice, in fact. It had even been the best coconut juice he had ever tasted. _But maybe that’s just the problem… Why would it be different?_ He swallowed, realising that those coconuts might be truly special after all. Now he worried about what it could mean. What happened if you ingested the content of an immature coconut? Did it have some kind of side effects? Could it have caused this weird fever he had last night? If so, was he out of the woods now?

“What would happen exactly if by any chance someone drank it?” he asked, trying not to sound as concerned as he was about the answer she was about to give him—he had actually a hard time keeping his mask on right now.

“They would die,” Madi said, her tone then very serious.

These three little words sent a shudder down John’s spine. He swallowed again, his throat feeling suddenly too dry and tight.

“Uh, we—we are speaking of a hypothetical situation, aren’t we…?”

She sighed and looked down to the sea. _Oh no no no, don’t do that…_ It did not seem like a good sign—not at all.

“There was a situation, a few months after my mother took on the role of Queen,” she explained grimly. “I do not remember all the details, as I was very young at that time, but here is what I know: Three of our people got sick within a short period of time, all with the exact same symptoms. First a very high fever, then madness, heavy dehydration and finally… death. There was nothing we could do to prevent it…”

_Fuck! It’s two out of four. Next, it is dehydration, is that it? When does this stage begin? Does it have already begun, maybe? Am I thirsty? Shit, I think I am…_

“People started talking about a local disease then,” the young woman went on, unaware of the turmoil in his mind, “but it was soon proved that it was poisoning… by fruits coming from this particular coconut tree. Immature coconuts, as you might suspect.”

No sooner had she finished to talk than John asked, “How much time?” The words came out hurried. There was a sense of urgency in the tone of his question, and he slapped himself mentally because of that. _Damn it, John Silver, keep up appearances!_

Madi looked up at him again, blinking confusedly. “Sorry?”

“How much time, before the poisoned people died?” he asked again, but way more calmly this time, trying hard not to let panic overwhelm him.

“Hmm… I would say… a few days, maybe?”

“Can’t you be more precise?”

She was frowning now. She must have understood that something was wrong, but John could not help it. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, fear coursing through his veins.

“I told you, Mr Silver, I do remember very little of this story. That was a long time ago.”

_No no no, you don’t understand, I need to know! I need to know when—oh fuck… There I am, thinking that I’ve already one foot in the grave… Well, literally, it’s true, but I’m not ready to join it, all right!? I refuse to die like this, because of some stupid coconut that just had to fall to my feet! I’ll be fine! I feel fine—mostly… It should mean something, no? No…?_

There was actually a simple way to confirm it.

“Well, then, do you know if they might have got better at some point before dying?”

The frown deepened. Madi looked more and more bothered. “I… do not think they have, no… They only got worse…”

 _Ha! There it is! The proof!_ The proof that he was different. The proof that his body had overcome the poisoning. At no time had the others felt better. They had followed the same circle of symptoms, until the very last one: death. But for some reason John’s symptoms had stopped. The fever had gone down, and now he was perfectly fine—sane. _I’m different._

“Why do you keep asking me for more details?” Madi suddenly asked, sounding more worried than confused.

He could read in her eyes her silent question. She knew, somehow. She knew why, but she needed him to say it. Because it was too hard to understand then how he was standing before her, alive and well, when he should not be.

“Other than the fact that I have a bit of a morbid curiosity? No particular reason,” John replied with a wry smile. He could not really admit it, could he? It would lead to a lot of questions, and he was so not ready to answer them.

The thing was, he did not know how he had survived. For some reason, he was different from the Maroons… but for what reason exactly? He thought about the circumstances in which his fever had gone down. He thought about it, because they were too strange to be ignored. He did not even want to think of this eventuality—really not—yet it was totally possible that Flint had played a major role in his unexpected recovery.

John had actually a theory about that—a shaky theory, with more hypotheses than proven facts, but a theory nonetheless. There was one thing he was sure of: his fever had been linked with his burning desire for sex—the proof being that, by fulfilling the second, he had brought down the first. Now what if, in fact, the arousal had not been a consequence of the fever, as he had first thought, but had caused the fever? What if it had been the very first symptom? John was not a doctor, and he could not ask Madi to give him more information on the deceased Maroons for obvious reasons, so he could not confirm this point of his theory, but it started to make sense to him. The second symptom, madness, would be only due to the increasing frustration going hand to hand with the unappeased desire. As for the dehydration, if the fever did not go down, then it was bound to happen sometime—and it was only logical that, at some point, it resulted in death. It all fit.

Well, all, except for a little something he could not explain rationally: said arousal. Even supposing that the coconut juice had made him feel that way in the first place, why had John not been able to get rid of it just by touching himself? Why had he had needed more? Why had he had needed Flint? And it did not stop here, because ultimately, what he had really needed was something he did not want to name… It just sounded crazy to him—it would sound crazy to anyone, really. Everybody else would probably think that this arousal had not been natural. He was tempted to think so too, yet he could not accept that. His reality left no room for the inexplicable. All had meaning; he only did not grasp it for now.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them now. Like him, Madi seemed to be lost in thought; she looked conflicted. She must have her doubts, of course, but it was probably easier for her to put them aside and believe John’s excuse. Well, then maybe a change of direction would be welcoming?

“So, how do you go from facing a poisonous coconut tree to using its fruits to make better medicine for your people?” John asked as another display of his never-ending curiosity.

Madi took the bait. She blinked away what was on her mind and said, as a story she would know by heart, “Our healer intervened when the coconut tree was about to be cut. Said that it was not a curse but a gift. She made promises of great good brought by Yemoja through the water of those coconuts. With such a speech, my mother had just no choice but to let the coconut tree untouched. So at least she had a fence built around it to protect our people, remind them not to be tempted by its fruits.”

Well, clearly, that fence was not enough… Was a sign that said ‘Beware of the poisoned coconuts’ too much to ask for?

“And then, after a while, a miracle happened,” Madi continued. “A man was badly hurt during a hunt. Medicine was in short supply in our camp back then, and given the gravity of the wound, there were very little chances that the man would survive through the night. Yet, our healer came with a new mixture of her making—I am sure you can guess what she added to the composition. Days later, the man was still alive, and his condition was better.”

“Is it not possible that he might just have been lucky?”

John regretted the question the second he pronounced it. He did not intend to sound so sceptical, and he was afraid that Madi would feel offended because of that.

He was quickly reassured, though, when she answered with no hint of annoyance in her voice, “It is indeed a possibility. Who knows?” He could almost picture her shrugging—almost.

She took a look around them, moved a bit closer to him, and then added, “But there was more after that, Mr Silver. The past fifteen years, these remedies helped my people a lot more than your medicine. We have survived some deadly fevers. Our babies are healthy, and we do not have to worry about teething anymore. I also know of a woman, once sterile, who got pregnant after she started to drink a special elixir. Is it not enough of a miracle to you?”

John could not argue with that. She had given him facts, yet she called it miracles. It was something he could neither agree nor disagree with.

“Maybe,” he said—the more neutral response he could come with.

To be honest, he was feeling uneasy. He had seen and heard things in his life—some of which were really weird—but none that had made him doubt of his convictions even a little bit. There was, in his opinion, a logical explanation behind each mystery. But now, he had to admit that, for some reason, a coconut tree was different from all others, as its fruits could either cause death or save lives. He had to admit that, for some reason, one of those special coconuts had fallen just when he was standing in front of said coconut tree and had rolled straight to his feet—a temptation hard to ignore. He had to admit that he could have died from drinking its juice, but that, for some reason, Flint had come to his hut at the right time and had cured him by fucking him. It would make a lot of coincidences, would it not? So, what did it mean in the end? Was that what people called fate? Well, he felt more as if _someone_ had played a joke on him…

He had no more desire to continue this conversation now. He did not want this knot in his guts; he did not want to question his reality. He was not a pawn on the game board of some higher power, all right? He made his own decisions. He lived his own life.

Madi did not say anything either, and John concluded that she preferred to close the subject too. So they just stood here, against the bulwark, silently watching the horizon next to each other. The unease remained, though. It grew and grew more inside John, as he could not stop thinking about that.

Luckily, he soon heard the start of a heated argument on the main deck. He turned his head and saw one of his men holding another by the neck of his shirt.

“Duty calls,” he said to Madi with a sorry look.

She set her eyes on the quarrel for a second. When she looked at him again, she only gave him an understanding nod.

With that, John left the forecastle, glad to go back to some normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the background story for the coconuts. :)
> 
> I don't know if the part about Silver's past is credible or not, but I wanted to give him a past anyway. Our past is what makes us what we are, after all.  
> Oh, and about that: Since Silver had no reason to give his age, I didn't indicate it, but he was between 12 and 14 years old when he met the nobleman. According to my research, at that time, you were either a child or an adult, there was no in between, and Silver was old enough to be considered as an adult by most of the people. Still, I consider that Silver was neither a child nor an adult. He was a smart boy and could pretend to be an adult, but he actually knew little about what it meant to be an adult; he hadn't received a proper education*. So you can decide for yourself if what he experienced with that nobleman was abuse or not. Just know that, to him, it wasn't (despite the age difference and despite the fact that he's been used).  
> *(I mean, he'd been the apprentice of a thief, as many street children, but he never went to school after fleeing the orphanage; he learned many things by himself, and he was also taught by some people he met here and there.)


	10. Chapter 10

It seemed that their last recruit, Ben Gunn—the blonde and thin man they had met while they were locked in a cage on Maroon Island—was the cause of the argument. According to the rest of the crew, Mr Gunn had been constantly hovering around Billy since he had joined them, like some lost puppy searching for its mother. Well, obviously Billy was not around right now, or else Mr Gunn might not have put himself in trouble by angering Dooley—one of their best fighters in hand to hand combat, a skill that had earned him his place in the Vanguard. Dooley was strong, so strong in fact that he was currently lifting Mr Gunn a few inches from the ground by holding firmly the neck of his shirt.

“That’s enough,” John said with authority when he got close enough to them. “You two, come with me.”

Dooley instantly let go of the other man and turned to John, looking repentant. _Good._ A powerful feeling was spreading in John’s guts. He liked the respect the crew had for him now. He liked that he did not need to insist for his men to obey his very command, and he liked that they wanted to stay on his good side too.

He pointed out the crew’s quarters with a move of the head and then walked over there, holding on a rope, hearing behind him the steps of the two men. He went downstairs, passed the rows of hammocks and went to the ship’s kitchen. This kind of problem was better solved quietly and discreetly. Dooley had not hit Mr Gunn, so there would be no punishment, but John could not let two members of this crew be at odds with each other during such dark times.

“Now explain yourselves,” he told them as he stood in the centre of the room, leaning against a table, arms crossed. His voice was deep and sharp, severe like the captain’s, his face just as stern as his.

The thing was, Dooley might be quite aggressive when he had not slept well for a while—which seemed to be the case right now, if the dark rings under his eyes were any indication. So John knew that the fight must have begun for ridiculous reasons. Yet, he had not expected something as ridiculous as _that_.

Mr Gunn had apparently seen fit to pick up and keep a hermit crab he had found on Ocracoke Island. As much as it sounded weird to John—who did such a thing as keeping a hermit crab as a pet, really?—he could not do anything about that, since it was not forbidden by the code of piracy. The real problem was that the hermit crab had left Mr Gunn’s bag during the trip to Maroon Island, and always since the crustacean had been bothering the crew, pinching men during their sleep, making little holes in clothes lying around, making the men think they had a rat aboard. Of course, Mr Gunn had let them think so, preferring to stay silent about his implication in this unpleasant situation. And who could blame him? He would have antagonised most of his new mates if he had confessed his doing.

Dooley himself would have never guessed anything if today he had not seen the small nuisance crawling on the main deck just before his eyes. He had tried to crush the hermit crab then, but Mr Gunn—who had surely been looking actively for his little pet all this time—had stopped him and asked for his forgiveness. Which had led to the argument in question. _Well…_

“And what has become of the hermit crab?” John asked, holding back a sigh.

Dooley glared at Mr Gunn, who answered with a contrite smile and an unsure look, “It… got away?”

This time, John sighed for good. In the end, the source of the problem was still out there, and he had a feeling that he would hear about it more than once. But he could not let this cause any more tension among his men. So he found just the right words, mentioned quickly Betsy at some point during his speech, aiming for Dooley’s compassion, and finally he managed to convince them both to work together on finding and keeping the hermit crab under control. Actually, it worked so well that, when John sent the two men off, Dooley gave an energetic tap on Mr Gunn’s back—making him cough—as a sign of support.

After their departure, John sat heavily on the nearest chair. Was it the normalcy he had been so keen to return to? He ran both hands over his face, all the energy gained from his nap being already gone. Well, he had thought it would be a long day and he had not been wrong about that. Compared to this, their plan regarding Nassau seemed almost sane—almost.

All of a sudden, he heard a strangled groan coming from the separate space with the cooking pot and kitchen tools. He stood up fast, startled. He had thought he was alone in here.

“Who’s there?” John asked, frowning, walking carefully to the cooking pot.

The only answer he received was another groan in the shadows.

The men rarely went to the ship’s kitchen outside of mealtimes. Some liked to play card games and place bets here, but they would have no reason to be in this small area. No one but the cook was allowed near the cooking pot and food stocks. So what? Was someone stealing food? Was he trying to lure John in the dark to have a chance to cut his throat before being truly caught?

John put a hand on the handle of his sword, ready to strike if someone dared make a move against him. He walked as quietly as possible, yet his iron foot hit the ground with a thud each fucking time, making his position easily known.

He looked around the area and finally made out a body lying in a corner on his right. A big, well-built body—Billy’s body. John opened his eyes wide, pictures of poor Randall lying dead against a wall coming to his mind. Something was wrong. Billy was breathing, so much was obvious, but maybe had he been hurt?

“Billy!” John called anxiously, moving closer to the first mate and kneeling with difficulty to get to his level. This position was good neither for his bad leg nor his sore arse nor his irritated cock, he knew it; so it was no surprise when all of these places started to ache more or less hardly in response to his hasty movements. He had more important worries than himself right now, though. “Billy, are you all right?”

Another groan. Billy opened his eyes a little and blinked at John, many times, as if keeping them open took a lot of effort.

“…Silver…” said the first mate then, his voice so unusually hoarse.

“Are you hurt? Did someone attack you?” John asked quickly, while looking if he could see a wound, blood, anything.

Billy licked his lips, cleared his throat. “…fell asleep…”

John stopped moving for a second and turned his eyes on Billy’s face—more specifically Billy’s barely open eyes. “You—” He let himself fall on the floor as a light laugh escaped him. “Jesus, you scared me there.”

Well, in truth, it was not really Billy’s fault. John might have been too prompt to think of the worse. _Since when am I such a pessimist?_ Now he felt like an idiot…

He put on a straight face, leaned against the closest piece of furniture, stretching his bad leg in front of him. The discomforting ache was spreading through his nerves, from his knee to his non-existent foot, just like a god damn cramp. He was used to it. It happened sometimes, could last for long minutes or only a few when he was lucky. It was not as bad as most days, probably thanks to the healing properties of those fucking coconuts, but somehow it bothered him more than usual… maybe because it was the first time today that his leg really hurt…

He tried to focus on Billy instead, watched him as the first mate was slowly sitting up beside him.

“Sorry to interrupt your little nap, but what the hell are you doing here?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you feel better in your hammock?”

As he said these words, he understood Billy had not come here to sleep in the first place. But for what then? What could be tiring enough to— _Oh. Oh, all right._ It was quite common for seamen to pleasure themselves in some corner of the ship after days, weeks, months at sea. Everybody did it, even John—every now and then, mostly to take the frustration out. Yet, weirdly, he had always thought Billy had no need for such things.

Billy cleared his throat again, apparently still drowsy, and John looked away, feeling a little bit embarrassed of where his thoughts were going. His eyes set on the kitchen tools dangling from the hooks, attracted by their movements. That was when he saw _it_ among them.

“My bag!” he exclaimed, recognising the leather bag hung just beside a pan. “Why the fuck did you put it there?! Do you know how long I searched for it?!”

John cared no longer about the ache in his bad leg. He was going to change position in order to push himself up more easily, but then Billy gripped his right sleeve and leaned sluggishly against him, blowing warm air in John’s neck, through his curls, sending a shiver down his spine. _Is he drunk?_ ‘He doesn’t have the smell, though.’

“I’d kept a piece for you, but…” Billy paused, swallowed. John heard him lick his lips once more—so close to his ear—before Billy went on, “…was too hungry…”

John yanked on his arm, feeling less and less patient. “I don’t care, just let me—wait a minute.” He turned his head, wide-eyed, to the first mate. “Did you steal some food from the stocks? Are you fucking crazy?!”

Billy looked at him with glassy eyes and faintly shook his head in response.

“I didn’t steal… I found it back there…didn’t want let it go to waste…”

John intended to ask more, trying to understand the nonsense coming from Billy’s mouth, when he made out something swinging on the floor in the corner where Billy had been lying… or rather two things, half-round and green and hollow…

The grip on his arm suddenly tightened as Billy moved even closer and sniffed his hair, just behind his ear.

“…You smell so good…”

_Oh, fuck!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is how this story ends, sorry about that! XD From the beginning, I wanted an ending quite like those in horror movies, when the main character thinks he has solved the problem, but then he realizes he hasn't... ^^
> 
> I'm also aware that you might not have liked the short time range of this story (about two days if you count the introductory chapter). It didn't allow me to play much with the relation between Flint and Silver. In my mind, their progress is slow, and it was incompatible with the time range I had chosen. So yes, there is a start, but as I said in the tags: it's not a love story. (Even though, let's be honest, Flint have feelings for Silver--too bad we don't have his POV, right? :p)  
> In fact, I thought a lot of the scene when they are all in Flint's cabin, and Billy suggests sending Silver to tell everyone of Flint's return from the dead. During this scene, Madi, Flint and Billy all look intently at Silver at some point, each for their own reasons, with their own thoughts. That's how I decided to introduce the magic coconuts sometime before, when Silver is left alone on Maroon Island. :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you haven't been too disappointed in the end! I'll conclude with a big 'thank you' to all of you for taking the time to read this story, and thank you too for the kudos and comments! You guys are GREAT! :*


End file.
